It All Started when the Girl Fell from the Sky
by Phoenix.Writing
Summary: The seventh year of the Golden Trio is thrown into turmoil when a surprise visitor from the future drops in on them.  HPDM and HGSS.
1. Look Out Below!

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**Author's Note**: This story is neither _HBP_ nor _DH_ compliant. _Feedback is always appreciated; reviews feed my muse and make me smile._

As should soon become apparent, I have two OTPs. They both make me happy, and they both feature in this fic. I don't get terribly graphic, but there is both a slash pairing and a het pairing; if this is not your cup of tea, this is not the story for you.

Updates should be every couple of days, as this story is complete, but I have to fix up the formatting so that it posts properly here.

**Anti-Litigation Charm**: It all belongs to JKR; I play for non-profit amusement.

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_**It All Started when t**__**he Girl Fell from the Sky**_

by Silver Birch

_Chapter One: Look Out Below!_

Hermione Granger was hurrying towards the Great Hall, brimming book bag slung haphazardly over her shoulder. She had been in the library and had lost track of the time, so she was half-running through the hallway. Having told the boys she wouldn't be late, she wasn't particularly in the mood for the ribbing she would get from them for getting lost in her books yet again, especially as she had told them specifically and rather snappishly today that she knew how to use a clock. But honestly, who cared about food when one could be reading about advanced Transfiguration?

Her forward motion was already quite accelerated, and this proved to be a boon when a small child fell out of the sky. Hermione reacted without thought, casting a cushioning charm and diving flat out, an instinctive reaction of both her comparatively recent magical abilities and her Muggle upbringing. The two bodies ended up in a tangle on the floor, the child's fall broken by the charm and by Hermione herself. There was a moment of confusion as they each scrambled and tried to recover from what had just happened. The child pushed herself up on Hermione's abdomen, so that the slightly-winded Gryffindor found herself regarding from quite close quarters a young girl who appeared to be four or five. She was pale-skinned, pointy-chinned, and possessed fine, white-blonde hair. She looked, Hermione realized, exactly like a miniature Malfoy – with the exception of the huge, emerald eyes. They, without question, were Harry's. Hermione could only stare.

The little girl blinked, dark lashes sweeping her cheek, and then said in accents of surprise, "Aunt 'Mione? Is that you?"

Oh, Lordy. This was getting weirder by the moment.

"Yes, angel, it's me," she managed to answer. "Are you feeling alright?"

"I mostly fell on you, and you're mostly squishy."

"That was the plan," Hermione conceded. "I think there's been a bit of an additional accident, though. Let's say we take a trip to the infirmary, and then we'll talk to the headmaster?"

"Alright," the girl agreed readily.

Hermione managed to climb to her feet, taking the child with her and settling her on her hip. She changed the direction she had been heading, and a few minutes later, they were in the infirmary, attended by Madam Pomfrey. Given the double-take the child received, Hermione was not the only one who saw the surprising resemblance. Hermione and her young charge were led to the far end of the infirmary and put behind a privacy screen.

The child did not want to be left alone with Madam Pomfrey, so Hermione stayed with her. They chatted quietly together while the nurse summoned Dumbledore. Scanning them took only a few minutes, and after the healing of a superficial bruise or two, they were each given a clean bill of health. A few minutes later, the headmaster had joined them. He was wearing an amazingly vibrant purple robe covered with myriad small, golden clocks. As Hermione wondered about the likelihood of coincidences, the little girl's face lit up.

"Granpa Dumbly!"

The twinkle in the old man's eyes grew more pronounced.

"You look less old just like Aunt 'Mione – what happened?" she demanded inquisitively.

"It looks as though you've gone back in time, Calla, sweetie," Hermione answered when Dumbledore gave a nod of consent. "I'm still in my seventh year here at Hogwarts."

"Seventh year? You're still a student?" Her face was suddenly wreathed with smiles. "Father and Daddy are still students here, too?"

Well, that answered that question. Hermione nodded and Calla let out a giggle. "That's amazing."

Before they made it any further in their inquiries, they were interrupted by an aggrieved voice sounding loudly through the room.

"I said I was fine! Multiple times! But she _insisted_ I come here."

Calla's face lit up, and before Hermione or Dumbledore had the chance to say anything, she had hopped off the bed and raced around the screen. By the time her two elders had progressed that far, the child was launching herself at Malfoy—who certainly looked completely unharmed to Hermione's critical eye—with a joyful cry of "Father!"

To his credit, Malfoy caught her rather than cursing her.

"I missed you," she exclaimed. "Aunt 'Mione says you're still a student. She caught me when I fell and brought me here and got Granpa Dumbly and now you're here! Is Daddy coming too?"

Looking utterly stunned, Malfoy stared down at the elfin face. Hermione wondered where his Malfoy mask had gone. Since several moments of silence didn't look to be broken by Draco any time soon, Hermione opened her mouth to answer for him in the negative. More voices sounded from the hall.

"The map said she was here – she might be hurt!"

Ron's less charitable response echoed through the room: "More like she's hiding out here in order to convince us she didn't stay too long in the library again."

Pursing her lips in annoyance, Hermione called out, "We can hear you in here."

The messy-haired Boy Who Lived and his tall, red-haired companion appeared in the doorway.

"Hermione?" Harry questioned when he caught sight of the assemblage.

An instant later, the child had squirmed out of Malfoy's arms and was making a beeline for Harry for a repeat performance of her earlier parental greeting. This time, however, she yelled, "Daddy!" and plastered herself to Harry's leg. Harry, like Draco, instinctively hugged her to him before scooping her into his arms.

"Well, aren't you the cutest thing I've ever seen." Harry smiled down at her. "You look just like a miniature Dra–Malfoy, but you have …" he faltered, "…you have my mother's eyes." His eyes rose to take in the rest of the room again as he demanded, "What's going on?"

Squirming out of the Gryffindor's arms, Calla grabbed up Harry's hand and tugged him further into the room towards everyone else.

"Aunt 'Mione says there's been an accident and I've gone back in time," she grinned, "to when

Father and you are still students."

"Father and I," Harry repeated, nonplussed, and then he turned to look at Malfoy. "That's … interesting."

"Interesting?" Malfoy repeated, his voice rising in intensity and pitch with each word. "Interesting? You just discovered you've had a child with me and you say it's _interesting_?"

"What would you have me say?" Harry asked. "Especially in … present company?"

The little girl looked up at her father with huge, guileless eyes. "Oh, please don't be upset with Daddy, Father. It makes him sad. His face gets all scrunchy." She mimicked this action for their edification.

Malfoy's eyebrow rose and he cast a sardonic glance at Harry before he responded to the little girl. "Oh, if it's a case of his face getting scrunchy, I quite agree with you, my dear. I'll try to behave."

She beamed at him. "That's what you usually say. And then Daddy points out that the 'optimal' word is _try_."

"Oh?" Draco's voice had darkened considerably.

The girl was nodding vehemently, seemingly oblivious to the sudden increase in tension in the room. "And then he tells you that's why he loves you and there's lots of kisses. And then you tell him that's why you love him and there's lots more kisses." She beamed at the two of them.

Draco's expression had softened considerably, although his cheeks were now tinged with pink, rather matching Harry's.

Hermione smiled at the little girl, realizing that Calla already had both parents wrapped around her little finger.

"Calla, sweetheart, how about you, Ron, and I go down to the kitchens to get something to eat?"

"May I?" She looked at her parents hopefully.

They both nodded at her, so with a last angelic smile, the little girl held out one hand for Hermione and another for Ron. It couldn't have gone better if Hermione had instructed her specifically, as the fiery redhead who had looked about to protest her suggestion bowed to will of the child. They headed out of the infirmary hand-in-hand and Hermione revised her assessment: Calla had them _all_ wrapped around her little finger. As they were crossing the threshold, Hermione heard Dumbledore speaking.

"Poppy, might I have a word with you in your office?"

She smiled. Dumbledore could always be counted on to catch one's drift. There were now only two people left in the infirmary, and as the doors closed behind the kitchen-bound trio, Hermione had a fleeting wish that she possessed Rita Skeeter's Animagus form.

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_Next up_: Conversation in the infirmary.

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	2. Discussions

**Author's Note**: This story is neither _HBP_ nor _DH_ compliant. _Feedback is always appreciated; reviews feed my muse and make me smile._

**Anti-Litigation Charm**: It all belongs to JKR; I play for non-profit amusement.

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_**It All Started when the Girl Fell from the Sky**_

by Silver Birch

_Chapter Two: Discussions_

Almost at the same moment that the main door to the infirmary closed behind Hermione, Ron, and the munchkin who had stolen Harry's heart, Madam Pomfrey's office door swung shut as well, blocking out all sight and sound of the mediwitch and the headmaster. There were no nosy paintings in the infirmary nor were there any students who were ill and confined; as usual, Madam Pomfrey was skilled enough—and magic advanced enough—that only the most serious cases (and Harry had qualified for an abnormally high percentage of those) required lengthy stays. Throughout the six and a half years of his illustrious hospital wing career, Harry had always been pleased with both of these facts: there was no one to spy on him nor to fawn over him. But now, now it meant that the hospital wing was completely empty. He and Draco were perfectly alone.

Harry stared at Draco. Draco stared at Harry. The messy-haired Gryffindor wished that Malfoys weren't so accomplished with their bloody masks. All Harry could see when he looked at the blond Slytherin was pure-blood aristocrat. No expression was betrayed by the agile mouth, no emotions leaked from the big grey eyes. Wherever Draco had come from when the mysterious "she" insisted he make his way to the hospital wing, strict formality had evidently not been required; Draco was dressed in neatly-pressed charcoal trousers and a grey cable-knit jumper that matched his eyes and looked as sinfully soft as the cashmere one Hermione's parents had given her last Christmas. There were no robes in sight, and Harry thought that Draco cut a very fine figure indeed — and suspected that the Ice Prince was well aware of that fact.

Since Harry had reached his wizarding majority the previous summer, he had been able to leave the Dursleys for the last time. He was finally free to dress as he wished and to display his considerable wealth. Of course, he didn't particularly _want_ to come off as ostentatious, and his upbringing had ensured that he had the fashion sense of a Flobberworm. Hermione assured him that he wasn't as bad as all that, but although Hermione herself had matured a great deal, Harry couldn't quite shake the bushy-haired vision created in his formative years with her, so he wasn't entirely certain that he should trust her fashion acumen. He also suspected that this was one of those times when his best friend would take it upon herself to lie to him to make him feel better. Especially in the presence of someone as impeccably-dressed as Draco, someone completely poised and without a hair out of place, Harry felt catastrophically inept. Facing the Draco before him right now, the Gryffindor felt as though could be standing in front of Lucius Malfoy.

Harry hated it.

The silence stretched taut and completely uncomfortable, making Harry want to squirm. Or better yet, shout — anything to clear the oppressive air that hung with increasing weight about the room. Draco, however, managed to look perfectly calm and composed, as though standing there in the middle of the hospital wing having a staring contest with Harry was not only completely natural but also precisely what he wished to be doing with his time.

Finally, Harry could stand it no longer, and he blurted out the first thing that came into his head.

"We appear to have a small child."

He could have smacked himself the moment the words were out of his mouth. How stupid an observation was that? How patently obvious?

"You mean it appears we _will_ have a small child." The condescension was plain, reminiscent of Professor Snape correcting a particularly stupid Gryffindor (and Harry had been on the receiving end often enough to recognize the tone well). Draco continued with a faint sneer, "We _certainly_ do not at the moment."

A frown appeared in the Gryffindor's brow. They were faced with a living, breathing little girl who was made up of the two of them, and Draco wanted to argue semantics?

"Malfoy," Harry protested, "that's not the point, and you know it."

"Malfoy, is it?" Draco asked with all the superciliousness of the consummate Malfoy, and Harry wanted to smack him. "I could have sworn I heard the beginnings of a 'Draco' emerging from your lips not so long ago."

"We _will_ have a child," Harry stressed with heavy sarcasm, rolling his eyes. "Do you really want me to pretend I don't think of you as 'Draco'?"

Draco's lips curled in cruel amusement. "So you're saying you want to bear my children?"

The Gryffindor shook his head in frustration with the Slytherin's attitude. "You can be a real arse, you know that, Draco? You want the truth? As corny as it sounds, here it is: yes, I want to bear your children."

The blond's silver eyes narrowed sharply as he glared suspiciously at Harry, as though determined to detect a falsehood.

"You want to bear my children?" he repeated with obvious scepticism.

"Did you not see our daughter, Draco?" Harry demanded, not realizing how much wonder and awe had bled into his voice. "Did you not hear her? _Of course_ I want that life."

"I take it I'm rather incidental, then."

Harry nearly growled with frustration, turning on the spot and pacing, trying to dispel some of his sudden furious energy. He whirled back, arguing: "Dammit, Malfoy, you can't possibly be more emotionally stunted than I am! If I didn't care who I was with then I'd already be with someone, because I assure you there's a bloody queue of blokes who want to be with the Boy Who Lived. But I happen to be holding out for the one person I actually want, and he, as we have just witnessed, is a suspicious, cold-hearted bastard!"

Draco crossed his arms over his chest and frowned at Harry and his rant. His answer was cool but with a slightly defensive edge: "Just because I haven't jumped you or declared my undying love does not make me cold-hearted or a bastard."

Harry sighed, defeated, unable to take any more of this conversation. "Fine. You win. I'm crazy about you, you could care less about me. Now that that's established, I have a small child to attend to."

He was so anxious to get out of there and lick his wounds in peace that he had turned away and made it halfway to the door before he heard Draco's hurried words.

"What are you going to say to her?"

Progress abruptly checked by this bizarre question, Harry turned back to see an unusually-flustered Draco waiting for a response.

"I don't have a script prepared, and the situation is a little unusual. I'll say whatever springs to mind, I suppose," Harry proposed finally, shrugging.

"I meant—" Draco said stiffly, waving a hand indefinitely between the two of them.

It took a long moment of Harry waiting for more information before the gist of Draco's non-explanation finally registered. When it did, he barely refrained from rolling his eyes again.

"Draco, did you hear anything of what I just said? Calla has what I hope to God is an accurate grasp of our relationship in the future. I would never do anything to jeopardize that."

"Well," Draco very nearly managed a casual tone, but there was still an edge of his earlier panic in his voice, "it would be irresponsible to have her worrying about more 'scrunchiness' on your part."

Harry's lips twitched, a reluctant half smile pulled out of him. "There is that. I'll—I'll see you later, Draco."

"Ta, Potter."

Harry headed for the kitchens, feeling like a complete idiot and rather at a loss as to what to do next. He didn't really have anything left in his rather Gryffindor arsenal of behaviour and responses. As far as conversations with people he was interested in went, he thought he'd done rather well: he'd managed full and complete sentences with words of multiple syllables, and he'd expressed himself honestly even in the midst of colossal embarrassment. Really, it didn't get much clearer than _I want to bear your children_, did it?

Not noticing the second-year Hufflepuff students he was passing who pointed and giggled at his deep introspection, he continued towards the lower levels on auto-pilot. Maybe it had been a mistake to define his position by Draco's mocking words. He shook his head, negating that thought even as it formed. No, he was quite certain that answering the question "You want to bear my children?" with "No, but—" would have been the wrong response.

The green-eyed hero of the wizarding world frowned fiercely, remaining ignorant of the resultant mass exodus from the painting of a gathering of seventeenth-century ladies which he happened to be passing at the time. He sighed. More like all answers were the wrong answer. He had fallen for Draco, but it was quite clear that the Slytherin Ice Prince had experienced no corresponding change in feelings when it came to Harry.

Sure, they got along better now than they used to, but that was largely due to the fact that they were no longer eleven-year-olds. At seventeen, it just seemed stupid to insult one another randomly in the hallways and sneak out for midnight duels (not to mention the fact that with N.E.W.T.s looming, who had the time?).

His inner-Hermione contradicted this mature-sounding reason. In fact, he didn't even have to imagine what she would say, because he'd heard the whole diatribe in real time the first week of September in sixth year. She'd been the first one to spot him as he'd tried to sneak back into the common room with a bloody and broken nose, cradling his arm, sporting various bruises, scratches, and lacerations, and possessing, as it had turned out, three broken ribs and a sprained ankle. She'd gotten that _look_ in her eyes, and her lips had pressed together into a thin line, and she had borne down on him like an avenging angel (or possibly a bat out of hell).

"Harry James Potter! You're sixteen years old and well past the age when you should be engaging in a bout of fisticuffs to settle your differences with someone. If you lay so much as another finger on Draco Malfoy, I will hex you six ways to Sunday!"

It was anyone's guess how she'd known it had been Draco. It also wasn't like her to omit a caveat about him facing the Slytherin on the battleground (because the Lord knew she was serious about and competent with the hexing), unless she'd been as certain as he wanted to be that that particular situation would never transpire. Maybe it was a "male thing", as Hermione had finally dismissed it with considerable ire, but kicking the crap out of one another and screaming … er, voicing their grievances (the imprisonment of Lucius Malfoy and the death of Sirius Black had featured prominently) had really seemed to go a long way to clearing the air between them.

So it wasn't so much that they'd maturely and naturally grown out of the fighting, but that they'd "been there, done that" extensively, personally, and with no one to interrupt or impede them. The worst they could possibly think about one another, the bitterest things they felt they had suffered at the other's hand, all of that had come out quite comprehensively, and then it was done. Where was the potency of a random "ferret face" in the hallway when you'd screamed that you wished his mother was dead because she was the one who'd found out about Sirius and thus led them to the Department of Mysteries? Likewise, "Scarhead" simply didn't mean much when you'd been told that it was a good thing your parents were dead because that saved Draco the trouble of killing them in recompense for the fate of Draco's father, condemned to Azkaban, getting the happiness sucked out of him by Dementors.

On top of it all, they were in the middle of a war, a fact which had become more and more apparent the older they grew. However it had come about, they'd effectively ceased outright hostilities, replacing them with cool civility wherever necessary. Unfortunately for Harry, this last had masked his _actual _feelings.

Giving the perpetually ticklish pear a brief fix, Harry's rather morose thoughts were brought to a grinding halt as soon as he entered the kitchens. What looked like most of the hundred or so Hogwarts house-elves were dancing attendance on his daughter, who appeared to be as thoroughly delighted with them as they were with her, if the high level of exuberance, cheerful chatter, and laughter were any indication. The house-elves' fierce reticence to get close to Hermione—who had really mellowed from her SPEW days, but they never seemed to notice—had apparently been speedily overcome by the vibrancy of the tiny blonde. There was a positive _mountain_ of food in front of Calla, and even as Harry watched, a dentally-inclined Hermione was nudging sugar-filled options out of the way and replacing them with healthier alternatives.

Calla's shriek of "Daddy!" obviated the need for him to announce his presence, and a moment later he found himself the recipient of an armful of green-eyed energy. The happiness of the house-elves also kicked itself up a notch, and Harry tried to smile indiscriminately but calmingly at everyone.

"Hello, love," he found himself responding easily to his daughter. "Did you have a good snack?"

She nodded vigorously. "Aunt 'Mione makes sure I eat the _good_ food."

"Aunt 'Mione's careful that way," he agreed. "It's how you know—"

"—that she loves you," Calla ended the sentence with a grin. "I know."

Some things never changed, apparently.

"'Sides, it's her duty."

Harry opened his mouth to clarify why in particular it was his best friend's duty when he caught sight of said best friend's stern face. _Ri-ight_. No asking potentially time-tampering questions. He still remembered their adventure in third year, and continued to wonder how on earth Hermione had made it from September to June unscathed.

"Don't even try it," Ron advised in a stage whisper.

Guess Ron learned that lesson, as well, Harry realised with a grin.

"Have you finished your snack, munchkin?"

Calla nodded, adding, "Father dislikes that movie, you know."

There was a loud snort from Hermione, and a look of puzzlement from Ron. Harry did his best to nod solemnly.

"I don't suppose he would quite agree with the outlook," Harry agreed as diplomatically as he could while thinking that Draco needed to get a sense of humour. It was one of the few movies Harry had seen as a child (although he was still not quite sure, in retrospect, what Mrs. Figg had been thinking), and it had stuck.

Her brow furrowed adorably. "Well, actually, last time we watched it he laughed a lot."

"Oh?" Harry queried.

She nodded, head tilting to one side as she remembered. "He said you were Dorothy…."

Arrested by this idea, Harry was caught up for a moment in consideration of who was whom. The munchkins seeing him off were his fans and groupies. The Wicked Witch of the West, obviously, was Voldemort, and Glinda had to be Dumbledore. Fudge or Scrimgeour worked well for the ineffectual Wizard of Oz. At this point, his mind stalled. He had a feeling it wouldn't be particularly salutary for him to attempt to work out which of his friends were which of Dorothy's…. Was Ron Toto? He and Hermione exchanged a glance over the little girl's head, and he knew she was thinking precisely the same thing. And then her eyes widened, and a moment later he'd reached the same place: Dorothy rather resoundingly defeated the Wicked Witch of the West.

Harry drew a deep breath. _Don't mess with the time line, don't mess with the time line, don't mess with the time line_.

Ron was just opening his mouth in query, no doubt anxious to know what they were on about, and Harry knew they couldn't keep talking about this.

"What do you say we let the elves clean up from dinner and head back up to see your father? We need to decide where you're staying while you're here," he proposed briskly to Calla.

The little girl brightened visibly at mention of Draco, and Ron was sufficiently diverted.

"Where else would she stay but with us?"

Harry opened his mouth, closed it again. Hermione found the diplomacy that Harry was still struggling for.

"I'm sure both of Calla's parents will want to be part of that discussion, Ronald." The mild censure fell away as she smiled kindly at Calla. "Have you ever been Disillusioned, angel?"

Calla, who had not, viewed this as the greatest treat ever, exclaiming in delight at the cold head-to-toe trickle of the spell. Harry applauded the clever Gryffindor's foresight as they made their way back to the hospital wing. Now that dinner was out, there were a fair few students in the hallway, but the Gryffindor Trio received no odd looks for having a slightly larger-than-normal gap in their midst.

Back in the mediwitch's domain, Harry discovered that Draco was no longer alone; he had been rejoined by the headmaster, and Sn … Professor Snape (damn Hermione!) was now with them, an antagonistic presence in black.

The headmaster smiled at sight of them, and Harry could have sworn that Draco looked fleetingly relieved when Hermione unCharmed Calla.

"At least one of you has a modicum of sense," the Slytherin Head of House snarked. "She should not have left the hospital wing."

"Professor Dumbledore was right here, _sir_," Harry said with as little respect as he could manage, especially annoyed at being chastised in front of his daughter, "and he let us go."

Calla had caught on to the discord in the room, and she moved closer to Harry, reaching up to take his hand, squeezing it tightly. She offered him what looked to him like a reassuring smile, so he was unsure if she was worried or offering him moral support. At any rate, he began to suspect strongly that she knew Professor Snape from her time.

"Be that as it may—" Professor Snape began severely.

"I believe the pertinent fact is that Calla has returned to us unharmed and unseen," Dumbledore observed, serenely curtailing the impending diatribe, a talent which Harry wished he possessed. "We've just been discussing the necessary arrangements."

"Everything's settled," Draco cut in impatiently. "Calla will stay in the dungeons."

"I'm sorry?" Harry said.

Looking askance at Harry, as though he were being deliberately obtuse, Draco repeated, "Calla will stay in Slytherin House. We need only mask her eye colour, and everyone will assume she's a Malfoy. I'll let slip about an old indiscretion of my father's, and she'll be hidden in plain sight."

Harry only distantly heard Ron's exclamation. He choked out a "Hermione" and paid no attention to how the Head Girl bullied their best friend out of the room. Drawing in deep lungfuls of air, Harry was doing his best not to react precipitously to the news and to the seeming pride with which Draco had announced that Harry's daughter was going to be passed off as Lucius's bastard.

"Have you considered—" he began in a tightly-controlled voice.

"Use a little common sense—" Professor Snape overrode him.

"I get to stay in the dungeons?"

It was fortuitous that she spoke. Harry hoped he was the only one who had noticed his lapse and the momentary infinitesimal shaking of the furniture. She sounded happy and hopeful, and looking down at her as she gazed trustingly up at him, Harry knew he could deny her nothing.

"Would you enjoy that, love?" he asked, forcing the words to come out naturally through a throat that felt as though a golf ball had been lodged in it.

Beaming at him, she nodded vigorously.

"Then it's settled," Draco said brusquely, "she'll stay in the dungeons with me."

It was settled. Calla would be going to the one place where Harry was least welcome in all of Hogwarts.

* * *

Four days passed. Four days during which Harry had to hear the rumours spread about the illegitimate Malfoy residing with the Slytherins, and he had to keep silent about the whole damn thing. Hermione had opened her mouth on the second evening, when they were tucked up in a corner of the common room, after they had overheard a particularly raucous round of ribbing coming from the cluster of chairs on the opposite side of the room. He knew she was about to suggest that it would seem less suspicious if he ridiculed the little girl and Malfoy like many of his schoolmates were doing, but one look at his expression had her shutting her mouth again without a word being spoken. He noticed that she wasn't getting in any jibes either. 

Four days during which Harry had to _not_ look at his daughter as she ate at the Slytherin table and attended classes with Draco and the other Slytherins. Or at least if he looked at her (because, let's face it, everyone was looking at her), he couldn't smile at her like he wanted to smile at her, or wave at her, or, better yet, wander over and ask her how she was doing…. Four days and Harry hadn't exchanged more than a handful of words with the green-eyed minx (how had all of this even been explained to her?), and he was considering brushing up on his Unforgivables.

Tuesday night, just shy of midnight, found him perched in a window embrasure in a little-used corridor on the sixth floor. He'd needed to get away from the Gryffindors; Seamus and Dean had noticed his less-than-stellar mood as of late, but their attempt to make him feel better by ridiculing Draco's family problems had, for reasons obvious to anyone who knew the real state of affairs, failed spectacularly. Ron and Hermione hadn't helped, either, because at this precise moment Harry didn't really need anyone else to commiserate with him on how unfair his life was — he was quite well aware of the fact on his own, thank you very much.

Only four days ago he had learnt that his dearest wish of having a family despite his sexuality was not as far-fetched as he had always imagined. No, no one had ever thought to mention to him that wizards could carry children (Dumbledore _really_ needed to add a Wizard Studies course to the curriculum), so Harry had been hit over the head with the fact when Calla had unexpectedly appeared and thrown herself at him. Not only did he have a child, he had her with the man of his dreams. How perfect was that, right?

Wrong. No perfect life and no happily ever after. Not for Harry _bloody_ Potter. The man of his dreams was a complete bloody prat, and not only did he thoroughly repudiate Harry when Harry made his feelings plain, the Slytherin went to great lengths to remove the child from Harry's influence as well. Harry could see the life he so desperately wanted, but he was not permitted to grasp it. The powers that be should just rename him Tantalus and make his torture official.

"You really want to bear my children?"

Harry nearly started out of his skin, whipping around with more panic than planning, although his wand was pointed unerringly at the disturbance when his movement stilled. Draco was standing in the shadows a few feet away. Harry drew a deep breath and let it out slowly to help calm his rapidly thundering pulse, and then the Slytherin's question registered.

Harry's expression of dismay darkened to outright hostility. "Recording it this time so you can share my idiocy with your Slytherin friends?"

Draco took a step closer, so that the light of the just-waning moon streaming through the window lit his hair, making it shine silver, and highlighting the frown on his faintly-glowing face. His answer was defensive: "I'm just asking–"

"Well, you can stop asking, Malfoy," Harry snarled, jumping down from his resting place and moving to brush past the Slytherin and head for the nearest set of stairs. "I'm not interested in your questions — or your company."

Draco grabbed Harry's arm in a strong grip, halting the Gryffindor's progress. "What the hell are you so upset about, Potter?"

Harry turned back, eyes fairly glittering with his fury as he wrenched his arm out of Draco's grasp. Each word was gritted out through clenched teeth: "You took my daughter away from me."

Draco's mouth opened in a faint 'oh' of surprise. "It was easier to hide her that way." He snorted suddenly in obvious amusement, the sound grating on Harry's nerves. "Potter, have you seen her hair? Her chin? Nobody was going to believe she was just a Potter, and it was easy to mask her eye colour. It's the only plan that made sense."

"It's the plan you went ahead with before we had the opportunity to formulate any others!" Harry snapped.

He couldn't believe that he and Hermione had been planning to wait to discuss it with the Slytherin. They should have bloody well taken Calla straight to the tower, settled her in and then seen how Draco liked it. Instead, they had been bloody Gryffindors and brought her straight back to the Slytherin ambush.

"It's the plan you would have decided on if you were being the least bit sensible," Draco pointed out dryly.

Harry ground his teeth. His heart hurt, and this condescension did not help, it only told him what an idiot he was.

"Think of what they'll do to her if they realize she's my child." He didn't realize how much of his anguish leached into his voice.

"That's why she's safest with me, Potter," Draco argued. "If you stuck her with the Gryffindors she wouldn't be surrounded by her enemies at night, but she'd have a target blazoned on every time she shared a meal and a classroom with the Slytherins. This way, nobody suspects anything, and as long as the Slytherins think she's a Malfoy, they'll even protect her."

"But what about the other three quarters of the school?"

"Slytherins protect their own, Potter; I just said so."

"And if you're mistaken? If one of your snakes finds out the truth and your precious House turns on her? What then?" Harry demanded angrily. "How will you fix it once it goes horribly wrong?"

"Where is this coming from?" Draco asked irritably.

Harry's voice was low but intense. "When you talk to her, laugh with her, tuck her in at night, I hope you appreciate that she represents all I have _ever_ wanted in my life. You have made it abundantly plain that this was the only opportunity for me to experience it, and you took that away from me, too."

Angrily, he blinked back the tears that threatened, determined not to sink to the ultimate low of crying in front of the Slytherin, who looked considerably startled.

"Har—"

So upset that he didn't even notice the use of his first name, Harry shook his head. "Leave it alone, Malfoy. If you have a single shred of human decency—" His breath hitched, and he knew he'd reached his limit. "Just leave it alone."

This time the other boy didn't try to stop him, and Harry finally made it back to the stairs. The journey to the tower and to his bed was not long enough to dull the pain and the tears that threatened. He soon found himself achingly alone, and horribly sleepless, certain in the knowledge that everything he'd ever wanted was effectively—and insurmountably—a world away in the Slytherin dormitory.

* * *

**Author's Note**: Although the situation is completely dissimilar in many ways, and I have tried not to imitate it, I would like to acknowledge an underlying influence of Vorabiza's _Malfoy Child_ with its own tiny and compelling blond. At the very least, I suspect it's part of the reason why it seemed so natural to me for Hermione to call Calla "angel". 

_Next up_: Life, with its new twist, continues. What does Calla know that the inhabitants of this time at Hogwarts might not be prepared to hear?

* * *


	3. What Calla Knows

**Author's Note**: This story is neither _HBP_ nor _DH_ compliant. _Feedback is always appreciated; reviews feed my muse and make me smile._

**Anti-Litigation Charm**: It all belongs to JKR; I play for non-profit amusement.

* * *

_**It All Started when the Girl Fell from the Sky**_

by Silver Birch

_Chapter Three: What Calla Knows_

"Detention, Miss Granger, tonight at seven-o-clock."

Hermione looked up, startled, in time to see the Potions professor sweep past. What? She'd just received a detention? She looked at her flawless potion, bubbling gently in the cauldron in front of her; at her neatly-written notes, arranged in an orderly pile at the corner of her table; at her carefully-arranged ingredients, set out precisely next to the cauldron, volatile ingredients judiciously separated, all extra amounts repackaged or resealed in their containers. She could not see a thing out of place or worthy of such censure. It was apparently one of those detentions-for-no-reason. She preferred to let it go, but decided that, on balance, she couldn't be seen to ignore such an action on the Head of Slytherin's part. Not to mention the fact that if she didn't speak up, Harry or Ron, from the looks on their faces, would.

"For what, sir?"

The professor, who had been continuing his circuit about the room almost as though he had not spoken to her, whirled back to face her. "I beg your pardon?"

"I was wondering what my detention was for, Professor," she elucidated politely, as though it were perfectly natural for the student who had received the detention to honestly have no idea why it had been meted out.

His eyes gleamed. "You have been careless with your ingredients, Miss Granger."

"Have I?" she queried absently, looking back at the ingredients one more time, still seeing nothing amiss. Draco (she couldn't seem to think of him as Malfoy now that she knew about Calla) was perhaps the only other student in the class who typically approached her level of perfectionism (or obsessive-compulsion, as Harry and Ron were fond of telling her).

The next table over, she could see that Harry was growing incensed with this apparently blatantly reasonless attack, and the table behind his showed an increasingly red-faced Ron.

"Most definitely, Miss Granger," the professor confirmed silkily. "Why, if one were to move by like so—" he swept past her one more time, and a particularly theatrical swipe of his robe and elbow knocked her entire jar of beetle eyes off the corner of her table, where it smashed spectacularly on the floor, causing her to purse her lips, "—an accident could occur."

"That was certainly quite careless," she agreed easily.

His narrowed eyes showed that he, at least, noticed that she hadn't conceded _who_ had been negligent. If he wasn't such a drama queen sometimes, it wouldn't have been an issue at all. She thought her potshot was entirely warranted, given that it had been rather unsportsmanlike of him to remove her Unbreakable Charm before letting fly with his elbow. It certainly hadn't been carelessness which had led her to put the non-reactive and non-toxic jar of beetle eyes on the outer edge of her table. She had survived six previous years of Potions with the Slytherins, after all, so even if it wasn't usually the Head of House who was attempting to sabotage her efforts, she was prepared.

From the Slytherin section of the room, Calla was watching, mouth agape at their behaviour. Hermione chose to take it as a good sign that such overtly unfair machinations seemed to be atypical of Severus's future dealings with her. The Slytherins themselves were not trying to hide their amusement at her expense, while the rest of the class looked on with varying degrees of sympathy.

The Dynamic Duo looked ready to garner detentions of their own in her defence, but she shook her head firmly at them (an action not missed by a now vaguely amused-looking Potions master), and they reluctantly desisted. Truthfully, her emotions more closely mirrored Severus's than Harry and Ron's. She would have thought that the two would know by now that a Snape-with-a-mission was not to be deterred, and she found it flattering that he had to so patently manufacture a reason to punish her.

The remainder of the class passed without incident, Hermione taking it as the equivalent of an apology—or as much a one as she would ever get from the Slytherin—when Severus "allowed" her ("Hurry up, Miss Granger; you have disrupted this class enough for one day!") to _Reparo_ the shattered jar and Summon the insect eyes which had jumped, skittered, and rolled throughout the entire classroom. The Slytherins shrugged off this lost opportunity to see a Gryffindor grovel, and everyone else looked relieved that nothing more had come of the incident.

Despite the interruption, Hermione was able to hand in her perfect potion, and she let out only a small sigh at the realization that it was worth nothing more than her own pride and Severus's stubbornness. Although Severus demanded perfection of his N.E.W.T.-level students, even he seemed to recognize that not every person in the class was going to produce a potion that looked exactly like his own every time. The potion certainly had to work precisely as it was supposed to, but, depending on the professor's mood, the finest details could be open to a little more interpretation. There were days when it would most definitely have been beneficial for Harry or Ron to have been able to submit her work rather than their own. She still wasn't sure whether it had been her effort or Dumbledore's (or a combination of both) which had convinced Severus to accept the two of them into his class.

Ron continued to think that he and Harry were both going to be Aurors, and Hermione was fairly certain that Severus was under that misapprehension as well. She had known for almost a year and a half that Harry's heart lay elsewhere, and wondered, sometimes, how the boy who could beat her at chess often saw so _little_ in real life. Ron had taken Harry's determination to train himself and hone his DADA skills following the death of Sirius as a sure sign that Harry was preparing for that illustrious Ministry job that he had seemed so fierce about in fifth year. Hermione had looked at that strong, implacable determination and seen the brittleness behind it. Harry wanted, _needed_, to see this through, but there was no way he would allow his future to be marked by it as the beginning of his life had been. Harry would finish the war with Voldemort because he had to, but she was certain that afterwards he would walk away.

Hermione had picked up on an increasing interest in healing potions and the healing arts and suspected that Harry had quietly discovered his métier of choice. She subtly encouraged and supported where she could, but otherwise let him have his privacy while it was possible. Really, it had been a stroke of brilliance on his part (or great luck) to loudly declare such a Gryffindor future employment to Professor McGonagall and then Umbridge. It was seemingly _so_ Gryffindor and Harry was seemingly _such_ a Gryffindor that people accepted it and moved on without further consideration. Harry was left to make his own actual choice at his leisure, with no unsolicited public opinion to bother him.

Hermione didn't know what had just passed between Harry and Draco, but _something_ had definitely occurred at some point after Harry left the common room Tuesday evening and before he arrived at breakfast Wednesday morning. The Gryffindor had remained angry, hurt, and completely mute about the whole affair, but his demeanour was approaching initial post-Veil levels of angst and sorrow. It had evidently been of considerable import to both parties because she could swear that the last day and a half had produced more covert glances and puzzled looks on the blond boy's part than in the entire last year. Cementing her certainty was the fact that the colour of Draco's potion today was distinctly off. Oh, it was a more than passable effort, certainly, but not at all up to the boy's usual standards; he had to have been powerfully distracted to let such a thing occur in his Head of House's class.

Despite what many people thought about Severus's favouritism of the Slytherins in general and of the Malfoy scion in particular (and despite a certain truth to these beliefs, especially in their early years at Hogwarts), Hermione knew that Draco took great pride in his exemplary Potions skills. The boy was no longer content to let the Malfoy name garner him a reputation he had not earned, at least when it came to scholastic achievement.

Aside from Dumbledore, Hermione was perhaps the only person who knew how hard Severus had worked to ensure that Draco was not forced to take the Dark Mark the summer after the disastrous battle in the Department of Mysteries and the imprisonment of Lucius Malfoy. She had witnessed firsthand the physical toll it had taken on Severus to make his point to an already-infuriated Dark Lord. But, as in so many dangerous tasks that Severus had undertaken, he had prevailed; she had watched with pride as Severus had finally been able to declare at an Order meeting in early August that it had been deemed by Voldemort too dangerous and not of enough benefit to brand any of the Death Eater children while they were under the watchful eye of the headmaster of Hogwarts. The clock was steadily ticking down to the point of no return, but for now they had only to tow the line.

That summer, Hermione's respect for the Potions master had rapidly grown by leaps and bounds. At the beck and call of two strong-willed and demanding masters and pursuing his own agenda to safeguard his godson, even Severus had shown signs of fatigue. He was brewing constantly, whether for Dumbledore or Voldemort, but missions for one or the other threatened the completion of most of these brews.

It had been Dumbledore who had interceded and convinced the obdurate man to accept the help that he had spurned from her the previous summer, and also the headmaster who had cajoled her into once again offering it. Hermione supposed that returning to the service of a madman you had hoped was dead in order to spy on him for the other side was enough to make anyone a little short, but after his scathing dismissal of her age, abilities, attitude and, yes, he had even got in a dig about her hair, she had sworn that he could run himself ragged and she wouldn't offer a finger to assist.

By the time the summer after fifth year actually arrived, she was a year older and he had had an entire year to be reminded of what life as a spy was like. So while there were plenty of snide comments, he took her on as his assistant. For her part, she had nearly met her death at the hands of Dolohov in the Department of Mysteries, and the fact that Severus returned to those _people_ time after time to bring what information he could back to the Order…. Anything she could do to help lighten his burden was not too much to ask, and it had only been her pride standing in the way (which Dumbledore, being Dumbledore, overcame easily enough). Once a pinkish scar was the only physical remainder of her ordeal, she had begun to brew to the Potion master's exacting standards.

At the time, she hadn't realized what he was doing. The only persona she had really known then was Professor Snape, so when he continued to instruct her in the lab in this manner, it came as no surprise to her. If she thought it was a little odd that he demanded she read chapters of textbooks and answer frequent viva voce examinations, she passed it off as simply his way of ensuring that she was competent and not wasting his time.

At the end of August, when Professor Dumbledore, twinkling like mad, had blithely informed her that she had completed sixth and seventh year Potions and had only to sit her N.E.W.T., she had initially thought him short a few marbles. But, no, as it turned out, many of the healing and defensive potions that the Order needed were on the sixth and seventh year curricula. Severus had either substituted out the ones that would make her suspicious or failed to mention that some of the potions she was brewing weren't actually needed by the Order until she had completed a full two years' worth of potions in less than two months. Unbeknownst to her, he had been _grading_ her oral answers, a fact which had contributed to the rant she had subjected the sneaky Slytherin to once the headmaster had sent her on her way.

He had weathered her diatribe with remarkable composure, responding with a curt "you're welcome" and stalking off, giving her time to calm down. Ultimately, it had been quite a boost to her self-esteem to know that she could still earn an "O" without all the preparation and revision she normally considered necessary for class. It was true that she had still done as much prep during the summer as some students did for their actual courses, but that wasn't important to her, as she was judging against her own previous efforts. Her subsequent sheepish apology and heartfelt gratitude had been met with an equally stoic response from the Potions master, but she had nevertheless been certain that he was pleased; she had therefore refused to take too seriously his cutting observation that it was hardly fair for her to get months of private tutoring from him and then get graded during the school year on potions she'd made dozens of times under his expert supervision. Deciding that discretion was the better part of valour, she didn't point out that many of the pure-bloods had private tutors during the summer months. Besides, it _was_ true that none (with the exception of a very young Draco) received said tutoring from Severus in particular.

As N.E.W.T.s were administered only once a year, Hermione had to wait until the end of her sixth year to sit them. Since it would have been highly suspicious for the know-it-all Gryffindor to drop Potions, she had continued to take it, only Professor Dumbledore and Severus being aware that she had already passed with flying colours. When she asked the latter why she still had to submit all her potions perfectly and take all the tests, he had threatened to reevaluate her. The headmaster had taken it upon himself to reassure her when Severus was not present that her sixth and seventh year grades were safely submitted to him and unchangeable. She had chosen to humour the snarky bastard for the most part, and to occasionally industriously write something else entirely during the period when the rest of the class was completing their tests. Her favourite effort to date was a roman à clef about three innocent students who were being terrorised by their Chemistry teacher; there had been more red ink on that submission, she remembered fondly, than on the rest of that years' papers combined.

How, precisely, the headmaster had arranged it, she didn't know, but he evidently had friends in many places. Hermione had been the first person to sit the Potions N.E.W.T. that year, enabling her to be got out of the way before anyone could be the wiser. Her results were duly recorded and then promptly lost at the Ministry, and she became the youngest person to complete the N.E.W.T. in at least a century (which she personally thought was ever so much cooler than being the youngest Seeker, but she didn't overly much regret not being able to tell anyone, because she knew they wouldn't agree).

The summer after sixth year, Hermione had resumed her role as Severus's lab assistant. This time, however, she was no longer his student, and she was pleased that he allowed the shift in relationship with only moderate difficulty. (It had taken a screaming fight to rid him of the "Miss Granger" that she despised, but she had managed it eventually.) When he had invited her to call him Severus for the first time, the contentment she had felt was absolute. In typical fashion, this had been followed by a comprehensive list of dire consequences should she ever fail to show him the proper respect in the presence of others, but she had been well used to his ways by then.

Bit by bit, she got to know the real Severus, although there were still many areas of his life that remained obscure, and she had come to believe that he knew her better than anyone else. Of necessity, her parents couldn't enter completely into the wizarding part of her life; though they had loved her and raised her with care, she was simply not their little girl any more. Likewise, although Harry and Ron were an integral part of her experience of the wizarding world, so many of her interests and problems did not match theirs; she had never been able to share all her worries or loves with them. With Severus, she found that they had many interests in common, and he seemed genuinely interested in her opinion … when he wasn't dismissing what she was saying as complete nonsense, of course.

That second summer of her unofficial apprenticeship, Severus had also consented to tutor the Gryffindor Trio in defence, time permitting, and Hermione had served as a buffer between her hot-headed friends and the opinionated Potions professor. Since she had always defended the man to the two Gryffindors, they had not taken her current role amiss, and she had never informed them of just how well she knew Severus or just how much he was growing to mean to her.

So while Harry and Ron, although grudgingly respecting Severus a great deal more than they used to, still took it as a personal insult when he had a go at her as he had in class today, Hermione merely assumed that he had a purpose.

This purpose was revealed to her that evening at seven, when her entry into the lab was promptly followed by a blonde blur plastering itself to her leg. Through the layers of clothing, Hermione could feel the lump of the necklace she had owled to Draco to pass on to the little girl two days before.

"Aunt 'Mione!" the little girl cried joyfully. "Hello, hello, hello!"

"Hello, angel." Hermione smiled at the youthful exuberance. "How are you?"

"'M good, but I miss my Gryffindors!" she declared hotly.

"And your Gryffindors miss you," Hermione averred.

"As touching to witness as this little reunion is," Severus interrupted with enough sarcasm to slay a small army of goblins, "I have business elsewhere. I will return."

Before Hermione could formulate a response, he was gone in a dramatic flurry of black robes. _Guess I'm to stay here 'til you get back, sir?_ She shook her head in bemusement for his omission of any social niceties. Still, it was a far cry from pickling rat brains, and there was almost no chance that he and Draco couldn't have arranged it so that they took Calla in turns. Severus sometimes had duties that couldn't be put off, but Draco's obligations were much more fluid. She could just imagine what Severus would think if she thanked him for his consideration, so perhaps it was just as well he was being so snarky about it.

"What would you like to do this evening, angel?" Hermione asked.

"Uncle Sev'rus was showing me how to—" the little girl cut off abruptly.

Hermione smiled kindly. "Severus was showing you how to make a potion but you weren't to tell anyone?"

She nodded.

"Well, we'll both pretend we don't know how sweet he can be, and go on with the lesson, shall we?"

Calla beamed, Hermione was pleased that there was at least one other person out there who agreed with her that Severus could be sweet, and on with the lesson they went. It turned out to be the boil cure the Potions professor had taught to Hermione and her class in their first year. _Prepping Calla for Slytherin already, then_, she thought with a fond smile.

Calla thanked Hermione for her gift.

"I thought it might be useful one day," Hermione answered with a smile. "You understand what to do?"

Her head bobbed as she stated proudly, "I understand all the instructions."

Hermione nodded her head in acknowledgement. With very little interaction, it had become apparent to Hermione that Calla had not grown up in the shadow of war. As far as they knew, she was therefore the only living person who knew the outcome of the conflict. And since she was the child of Harry and Draco, she would have heard stories growing up or even overheard whole conversations that unscrupulous people would not hesitate to rip out of her mind. The Gryffindor was doing her best to ensure that could not happen.

The potion had settled into a gentle simmer, and as they cleaned up the ingredients and other equipment that was no longer needed, the little girl beamed up at the young woman.

"You really love potions, don't you, Aunt 'Mione." It wasn't really a question.

"Yes, angel, I'm … very fond of potions."

More had ended up in her voice than she'd intended, because the child picked up on it immediately.

"You and Uncle Sev—" she began.

Hermione clapped her hand over the little girl's mouth, cutting her off abruptly. "You remember what I said about not talking about the future?"

The little girl nodded so that Hermione would remove her hand, but as soon as the offending appendage was out of the way, she protested, "But _everybody_ knows—"

"Everybody doesn't know _now_," Hermione pointed out as patiently as she could. "In fact, most everybody _now_ expects me and your Uncle Ron to get married."

Calla positively goggled at Hermione. "You and Uncle Ron?" she repeated in accents of utter astonishment. Her expression got very solemn. "I don't think Uncle Sev'rus would like that."

Hermione managed an equally solemn nod of agreement until that little pointy face suddenly cracked a gamin grin.

This was the precise moment that Severus walked back into the room. She and the little girl exchanged glances and then dissolved into helpless laughter.

Severus's rather dark expression grew positively menacing.

"Miss Granger, I fail to see what is so amusing." His voice was arctic.

Calla's laughter halted as her brow furrowed and she asked rather plaintively, "Why does everybody keep calling you Miss Granger?"

Hermione cleared her throat, trying to dispel the last of her chuckles. "That's my name, angel."

She frowned. "But aren't you 'Mione—"

Hermione was once again forced to cover Calla's mouth, narrowly managing to cut off the sound before the telling sibilant syllable began. That rather answered _that_ question for her. She had always envisioned keeping her own last name, but, upon reflection, realized what it would signify to the snarky bat: her belief that they wouldn't last, or that she was ashamed of his name. Since she wanted to be proudly by his side for decades to come, there was only one logical choice: Hermione Snape it was. _Well_, she thought philosophically, a_t least I had a very good reason to train Harry and Ron to say "Snape" respectfully_. Severus was looking at them suspiciously. Hermione looked down at the little girl in front of her, who was looking up at her with wide eyes.

"Do I need to Silence you?" Hermione chided.

The little girl gave a sheepish smile that Hermione could almost see around her hand, and the Gryffindor released her.

"Sorry, Aunt 'Mione," she said apologetically, actually sounding contrite this time.

"That's alright, angel, just remember where and when you are."

"It's hard with you and Dad and Father, 'cause I usu'lly tell you everything," the little girl confided, seeming to include both of them in the "you" category as she stared at both her and Severus with huge eyes.

Hermione doubted the Slytherin-at-heart told any of them _everything_, but she appreciated the sentiment. Severus looked as though he were seriously considering testing this claim, time paradoxes be damned.

"As you have no doubt noticed, I'll always do what I can to make sure you say only what you should," Hermione pointed out, trying to ease the pressure on the young shoulders.

The little girl nodded, suddenly smiling brightly. "Your Name Spell is brilliant!"

"Thank you." Hermione smiled, genuinely pleased, as the little girl was the first person to compliment her on it. Ron and Harry had been rather less impressed.

"I had been meaning to ask about that," Severus interjected silkily.

Dumbledore had called them into his office on Monday before lunch. Although Draco had averted any disasters, the little girl was having trouble remembering that Dad, Father, and all her surrogate family were not supposed to be related to her as such in this time. The headmaster had spoken to Severus and Draco earlier, and neither had immediately come up with a solution, as no one was anxious to take the drastic measure of any form of Memory Charm. When Hermione had offered the spell that she thought would take care of the problem, Ron and Harry had both gone rather red and looked anywhere but at her.

"Oh?" she asked brightly, as though she did not know exactly what he was asking.

His eyes narrowed. "Why would you create such a spell?"

Her smile deepened to one of pure satisfaction. "Let's just say I got tired of certain epithets coming out of the boys' mouths. The spell assesses the speaker's intent and turns any intended insult into the correct name and title instead. It was easy enough to modify it for Calla's situation."

When Harry and Ron had discovered that all "Greasy Gits", "Great Bats of the Dungeon", and even "Snapes" came out as "Professor Snape", they had been livid. But she had given them a final warning about their disrespect in her presence, and if they chose to ignore it, that was their problem. Since she didn't actually intend to coerce them, they were free to speak their own minds in private or with each other, but in her presence, "Professor Snape" was the only option. She had likened it to a more couth version of a slap up the side of the head, and when she'd pointed out all the curses she'd be happy to use instead if that was their wish, they'd subsided rather quickly.

In Calla's case, all familial relations were dropped or converted into proper names if she was in the presence of anyone inappropriate. With only those who knew her secret, however, she could be as affectionate as she wished. They had discussed it and determined that in the cases where "Harry", "Ron", and "'Mione" came up in mixed company, it wouldn't be outrageous for a four-year-old; the little girl had absolutely baulked at the notion of "Potter".

"You have nothing better to do with your time?" Severus sneered.

The insult was missing its edge, however, so Hermione knew he had guessed just whose title she was reinstating.

"Can you think of better guinea pigs?" she asked with mock innocence.

At that, he shrugged and let it go. Soon after, Draco arrived to pick up his daughter, and they departed in the wake of her usual enthusiasm. She had thanked Hermione profusely for the lesson, and winked at the Gryffindor when she pointedly did _not_ thank Severus for his secret assistance. Draco had given Hermione a nearly imperceptible nod of his head, which she had decided to take as a thank you.

She'd known it was a mistake, but she had then tried to thank Severus as she neatly poured the now-cool potion into a flask to store it.

He sneered at her. "Draco had a paper to write. He couldn't possibly take her this evening, and I have better things to do with my time than care for children."

Hermione's lip curled. She knew Draco had a paper, because she had been given the same assignment in Transfiguration. They could be such arses.

"That would make yours a curious choice of profession, _Professor_," she pointed out snidely as she took the cauldron to the sink to wash it.

"Well, rest assured that I intend to retire before teaching any more Weasley brats, Miss _Granger_," he answered dangerously.

"For your information," she answered through gritted teeth, scrubbing at the cauldron harder than was necessary, "Calla was as appalled by the idea of my marrying Ron as I am. The very notion is laughable!"

_Honestly_, she thought with exasperation. _As if I've given him any reason to think that since I was, what, thirteen?_

"But not quite as laughable as having _my_ last name, I take it?"

Cauldron forgotten, she turned to face him. "What?"

"I am not a stupid man, Miss Granger," no, he was a man in a towering rage, "and I have gathered what you found so amusing."

"You have the completely wrong end of the stick, you prat. We—" Stupid, bloody rules about time. Oh, sod it. "Calla had just commented on the fact that she didn't think the man I _do_ marry would much like Ron and me together. I agreed with her, and the mental image was rather amusing."

She left the cauldron to drain, and turned back as he answered.

"You started to laugh when you saw me," he accused.

_Oh, connect the dots on your own, you twit, or stop asking about it_, Hermione thought viciously.

"You interrupted us just as we let our amusement get the better of us," she answered circumspectly aloud as she scooped up the boil cure and handed it to him.

"Your detention is over, Miss Granger," he said abruptly as he took the vial. "Return to your dorm before I am forced to take house points."

Who'd won that round? It was hard to tell. As Head Girl, she wasn't subject to curfew, but he _hadn't_ taken house points, so perhaps that was answer enough.

"Good night, Severus," she bid, unwilling to leave it as overtly cold and professorial as his last observation would have done.

He didn't respond, so after a moment she simply gathered her bag and left.

As she traversed the corridors to her room, she considered their conversation. He was a spy, for heaven's sake! She sighed as she considered how completely inconceivable he must consider a marriage between them to not be able to figure out what she was not saying. She certainly had her work cut out for her. _Hmm …. What are the chances that I sent Calla back from the future to give myself hope?_ Her lips quirked up at the thought.

* * *

The next evening, Hermione and Draco met for their weekly Head Girl and Head Boy discussion. In September, they had chosen the neutral territory of the Room of Requirement to house the event, as it had the added benefit of ensuring that the room was not being misused by anyone on Friday evenings. Since it was only their second week back from Christmas hols, there didn't seem to have been time for anything to go disastrously wrong – at least as far as academia went. The third time she had to ask Draco the same question about his first-year Slytherins, she gave up. 

"Malfoy, would you like to discuss what's really bothering you?"

He seemed to really look at her for the first time that evening, and the calculation in his grey eyes showed that he was weighing his options.

"I daresay I have a great deal of experience in that area," Hermione noted as offhandedly as she could.

Draco rolled his eyes, observing, "Potter's a mess."

"Is there an event in particular that prompted this revelation?" she asked mildly.

And, finally, she learned just what he and Harry had fought about. Never would she have imagined that she'd be getting the story from Draco's point of view rather than Harry's. By the end of the recitation, Draco was pacing back and forth in front of her. She considered her words carefully.

"Have you ever looked in the Mirror of Erised?"

The pacing stopped. "What?" he asked in confusion. "No."

"But you know what it does?" she pursued.

"Show's you your heart's desire." He waved his hand dismissively. "What's with the lecture, Granger?"

"Harry found it in first year. Can you guess what he saw?"

Draco's scathing look said "get on with it" very pointedly.

She sighed. "He saw his family, Malfoy. He looked in that mirror, and he didn't see himself defeating Voldemort; he didn't see fame; he didn't see riches. He looked in that mirror, and his heart's desire stared back at him: relatives who loved him, a family whom he could love."

The blond Slytherin looked troubled.

"Harry is extremely sensitive about issues of family. Calla is the first genuinely loving member he's ever really known."

"And I took her away from him," Draco snarled.

Hermione shrugged a gesture of conciliation. "I'm not saying you had any intention of doing so. I _do_ think that Harry would do well to recognize from time to time that the whole world is not against him."

Draco pondered this for a moment before demanding suddenly: "What did you see in the Mirror?"

"I went home that Christmas."

He was evidently still preoccupied enough not to notice that she hadn't answered his question, only nodding absently at her answer. She wondered what she would have seen if she'd looked into the Mirror as that studious, compulsive first year. The Mirror, however, had not come her way until her sixth year, and by then her heart's desire was beyond the ken of the twelve-year-old she had been.

"I think we've discussed all that's necessary, right, Malfoy?"

He nodded again, and with a shake of her head and a bemused smile, she left the room and began her rounds for the night.

It seemed to be her current lot in life to deal with puzzled Slytherins suffering from information overload, and hurt Gryffindors suffering from emotional distress.

* * *

_Next up_: What does Draco do with his newfound knowledge?

* * *


	4. The Boy Who Suffered

**Author's Note**: This story is neither _HBP_ nor _DH_ compliant. _Feedback is always appreciated; reviews feed my muse and make me smile._

**Anti-Litigation Charm**: It all belongs to JKR; I play for non-profit amusement.

* * *

_**It All Started when the Girl Fell from the Sky**_

by Silver Birch

_Chapter Four: The Boy Who Suffered_

Harry Potter was annoyed. Slumped in one of the squishy chairs in front of the fire in the Gryffindor common room after dinner (moping, some would say, but he wasn't moping, dammit!), with his books open, unseen, on his lap in front of him, he had plenty of opportunity to reflect on his feelings. The depressing conclusion he was reaching was that he was annoyed with everyone and everything.

He was annoyed with his classes, because he could see but not interact with his daughter. He was annoyed with the Gryffindor Tower, because it was about as geographically distant from his daughter as it was possible to be within the castle. The infirmary reminded him of where they had first met and been able to speak freely for such a brief span of time. Ditto, the kitchens. In the Great Hall, he could only watch powerlessly from a distance as Draco discovered that Calla hated peas but ate brussel sprouts.

Additionally, the Great Hall was where the students received the post. Harry loved his snowy owl—she had been the first real gift he had ever received, after all—but Hedwig was distinctive, making breaking the rule about interschool mailing particularly difficult for him. And the last disaster-in-the-making he needed right now was for word to get out that he was procuring nondescript owls to send secret messages to someone – as if his life weren't under enough of a microscope as it was.

There was also the fact that the _Daily Prophet _was delivered in the Great Hall, and that particular rag drove him completely bonkers on a _normal_ day. Now the nosy busybodies had got wind of Calla (Harry could happily curse whoever had let _that_ sensitive bit of information slip), and gossip was rife as everyone tried to figure out all the sordid details: What did Narcissa Malfoy think of Lucius's affair? Why was the child staying at Hogwarts? Was the child's mother making a bid for power with Draco by sending the child to him? How was Draco taking the fact that he now had a half-sibling? What were the elder Malfoy's thoughts as he sat in Azkaban? The questions went on and on, and Harry was ready to pull his hair out.

Then there were the inhabitants of Hogwarts. All of the Slytherins had more contact with his daughter than he did, and that was insupportable. The Ravenclaws annoyed him, as they sat closer to the Slytherins then he could, and therefore closer to Calla. The Hufflepuffs were the embodiment of staunch loyalty; he felt that in spades towards his daughter … but _he_ wasn't allowed to show it. His fellow Gryffindors were just bothersome. His roommates, praise the Lord, had finally decided that it was "just one of those years" and were steering clear of him, but he had been first subjected to days of them trying to make him feel better with stupid suppositions and daft questions.

His best mate was the exception to the cease-fire, of course; Harry would be lucky if Ron left him alone in the grave. Harry supposed that the redhead had tried to be supportive, too, but he had got it _all wrong_. He had suggested that Harry throw himself into Quidditch, and when that hadn't gone over terribly well, he had demanded as his Captain that Harry put in a one hundred and ten percent effort. Harry had come dangerously close to telling his best friend where he could shove Quidditch and what he could do when it got there. The messy-haired Gryffindor was going through a large emotional crisis and his friend's advice was to concentrate on a _game_? Sure, he loved the wizarding sport, but there were far more important issues at stake for Harry right now, couldn't Ron see that?

In some ways, Hermione's reaction was the exact opposite of Ron's. She was very involved in the life of Harry's child. Much as he told himself he was being petty, he couldn't help resenting the fact that she was spending more time with his daughter than he was. He was genuinely glad that she'd told him about the detention she'd spent, so that he knew from a reputable second-hand source that Calla was doing well, but it was still a bone of contention. It was a relief that her sympathy wasn't based on denial like Ron's, but he still found her brand rather grating, because there was this edge that she couldn't seem to hide (or didn't want to hide) that told him that she thought he was being melodramatic. Well, he frowned grumpily into the fire, it felt like a mountain to him, so she could bugger off with her mole-hills if she didn't like it.

Dumbledore had made it onto his list for agreeing to that asinine plan in the infirmary. Professor Snape had also sided with Draco, plus he was being an even bigger arse than usual and casting aspersions on Harry's daughter's worthiness for attention. (Harry didn't believe for a second Hermione's insistence that the professor had to say he didn't want to deal with her even if it wasn't true.) The man was rounding out his abysmal behaviour by giving Hermione a hard time. Hermione deserved a bloody medal for having the patience to deal with the man, and instead she was mocked in class and given detention. McGonagall was not the only professor who had cast Harry odd glances now and again, apparently sensitive to his ill-humour (which had him grumbling to himself and not meeting any of their eyes), but only his Head of House had had the gall to tell him that he needed an attitude improvement.

His reply (Since he wasn't Quidditch Captain, Prefect, or Head Boy, his morale wasn't anyone's business, now was it?) had earned him two nights' detention. Scrubbing trophies had given him plenty of time to reflect that he really didn't _want_ any of those titles. He'd seen how much work Hermione and Ron had to do, and he'd seen how conflicted Ron could be between his duty and his inclination. Generally speaking, Harry had enough on his plate with being the supposed Saviour of the Wizarding World, thank you very much. But at the moment, the honour was just something else to add to the growing tally of things that Draco had that Harry didn't. Harry was quite certain that he hated school honours—from the titular to the shiny plaque variety—and he wasn't too enamoured of Filch, either.

The Gryffindor loved his daughter fiercely and deeply, but every time he looked at her, he saw those damnable Malfoy eyes and was thus reminded that his hand in her creation had been deliberately obscured and replaced with the name of Lucius Malfoy. Honestly, it was enough to drive any sane person completely over the edge!

A constant presence amongst all these irritants was the colossal aggravation that was the Great Prat. Draco annoyed Harry for more reasons than he could easily count. They were broad in range, too, going all the way from the superficial—Did he _have_ to be so pretty?—through the perpetual—He was a Slytherin and a Malfoy—to the unforgivable—He had behaved like an utter prat when it came to Calla and Harry's feelings. He couldn't even look at the blond Slytherin (which he was trying not to do in any case) without feeling boiling mad. Draco already had a loving family (Harry still remembered all those motherly care packages from their first year), why did he get Calla as well?

At the top of his list of annoyances was himself. It was he, after all, who'd had the monumental stupidity and lack of foresight to fall for the Prat to begin with. If he'd exercised an ounce of control, this whole disaster could have been averted. At the very least, he wouldn't have spilled his heart out in the middle of the night in a random hallway in the most embarrassing manner possible. Not only was all this upsetting him, but now Draco knew just how much. The list of his annoyances was growing really quite comprehensive, and _that_ was really starting to annoy him….

On some level, he knew he wasn't dealing with all of this terribly well, as even he was reminded of his fifteen-year-old self, and everyone knew how that had ended; he didn't think that even he could get away with destroying Dumbledore's office twice. He sighed. Clearly, Calla's conception was some sort of prank gone awry, or the product of some bizarre archaic law, because the Great Prat lived only to make Harry's life a living hell. This mess had no chance of working itself out happily.

His moody introspection was interrupted when Ron flopped noisily into the armchair at Harry's side.

"Let's go out to the pitch."

Harry didn't even bother to shoot him the incredulous look that he was thinking really loudly. Go out to the pitch in the second last week of January on one of the few evenings when he didn't have to be out there for Quidditch practice? Was Ron even more out of his mind than usual?

"Mate?" Ron prompted finally when Harry still had not replied after several moments.

Harry rolled his eyes.

"Can't you see I'm busy, Ron?"

Harry didn't bother to look down at the books that he hadn't so much as glanced at in several hours, nor did he look away from the fire.

For several moments there was blissful silence, but then:

"You, er, don't exactly look riveted to the material, Harry," Ron pointed out with a dryness that was nearly worthy of Hermione.

Harry tried ignoring the redhead again, wondering instead, as he looked at the cheerily crackling flame, what Calla was doing at this precise moment. He therefore missed the despairing glance that Ron gave to the lurking Hermione, who appeared at their side with a disgruntled huff.

"Harry James Potter, you will get your behind out of that chair and out to the Quidditch pitch if I have to Body-Bind you, cast a Mobilicorpus, and drag you out there myself!"

Startled, Harry looked up to see Hermione staring down at him with her hands on her hips and that glint in her eyes that said she was serious. Inwardly, Harry fumed (his two idiotic best friends had evidently decided to gang up on him "for his own good"), but he bowed to the inevitable and rose to his feet. He'd known it had been a bad idea to support Hermione learning curses and jinxes.

"Let's go, then," he said with as little enthusiasm as he felt.

To his further irritation, Hermione made him put away his school work, and then insisted that they bundle up in their warmest clothes, not content until he was sporting a hat, scarf, and mittens, and she had cast a Warming Charm that met her exacting standards. How long was he expected to stay out there?

They climbed out of the portrait hole, and Harry tuned Ron out as he began to natter on about some Quidditch move or other that he'd just discovered and thought was the most brilliant in the world. Harry didn't notice that neither of them had told him to bring his Firebolt. They trekked down the seven levels to the ground floor, forced to detour around some recalcitrant staircases, but eventually making their way out the main doors and across the grounds, each step outside crunching in a good fifteen centimeters of snow.

As the blowing wind caught at them and hurried them along, Harry grudgingly conceded that perhaps Hermione's insistence on proper winter gear had been a wise one. Since the moon had already waned past the last quarter, it was bloody dark, even with all the snow, but Hermione conjured a glimmering bluebell flame that, without being obtrusive, cast enough light to allow them to avoid any obstacles in their path.

As the reached the pitch, Harry felt the tingle of wards wash across his skin a second before he was blinded by the light suddenly shining around him. He had his wand in his hand even as he registered that there were only two people in front of him … one of whom was hurtling towards him screeching a joyful "Daddy!" at the top of her voice. He had to drop his wand to avoid impaling her upon it, also allowing him to properly catch the little missile and nearly squeeze her to death. Since she was hugging him back as tightly as _she_ could, he assumed she didn't mind.

He felt Hermione discretely press the abandoned length of holly back into his hand, and he finally loosened his grip on his daughter enough to see her clearly … and register that her natural eyes were staring back at him. Raising his own green eyes to those who had brought him here, he found that Hermione was beaming at him, Draco sported a faint smile, and even Ron didn't look totally disgusted with the whole turn of events.

It was only then that it really struck him. Together, the three had worked out a way for him to spent time with his daughter, getting them all out to the pitch at the appropriate time, lighting the area and hiding it from the nosy inhabitants of the castle, and casting Notice-Me-Not, Repelling, and Distraction Charms to keep them protected. They had picked the pitch, it became apparent as Calla began to chatter gleefully to him, in order for them to have a snowball fight together. The thought of either Hermione or Draco engaged in a snowball fight was almost too incongruous for Harry to wrap his brain around, but neither had batted an eyelash at Calla's inclusion of them in the "excitement" to follow.

In fact, Hermione took charge shortly thereafter, blithely putting Draco and Ron on the same team and ignoring their remarkably similar moues of distaste. After another moment of consideration, she added herself to the team as well, correctly judging, Harry thought, that a team of those two alone was a disaster waiting to happen. Either that, or she was attempting to give him more solo time with his daughter. Harry looked down at his little team member.

"Think we can beat them?" he asked.

"Definitely!" she exclaimed with certainty.

He was warmed by her vote of confidence, even if he suspected it was a tad misplaced in this instance. The number of snowball fights he had participated in could be counted on one hand, and they had all taken place after the age of eleven. Still, he would make the best showing he could, as his fatherly pride now seemed to be on the line.

Hermione laid out the rules. Magic was allowed, but only to modify nature. They were allowed to make more snow and cause a wind to blow, for example, but weren't to start Stunning the other team members. She then gave them a few minutes to form a base of operations if they wished. While Draco and Ron argued over the correct way to build a fort, Harry created a wall that was nearly as tall as Calla and about twenty centimeters thick. Ironically, his ability to do so was attributable to Professor Snape; the man would no doubt be appalled to discover that it was being used for such a frivolous purpose, but using nature to make a defensible position had been the subject of several of their training sessions.

Harry set Calla to making them the largest pile of ammunition she could, which she did with enthusiasm if not the greatest speed. Their prep time was almost up when Harry had to call Hermione to one side, lightly admonishing his curious daughter to keep building.

"We're not really supposed to consort, you know," Hermione pointed out cheerfully.

She was almost as red-cheeked as his daughter, and he was glad to see that she seemed to be enjoying herself so thoroughly. He should have known that putting her in charge of the rules would make her day.

"I feel like we're being watched," Harry said, low enough that none of the others could overhear him.

He had been unable to shake the feeling, although none of the covert glances he had cast along the perimeter of the area had revealed anything suspicious.

"We are."

He narrowed his eyes in surprise at her prompt and unalarmed answer.

"He's ensuring that you can devote all your time to enjoying yourself with your daughter."

Harry digested this, and several reviews brought him to the same conclusion.

"You're saying that Professor _Snape_ is watching me _play_?" Harry demanded incredulously.

She smiled and nodded, not seeming the least perturbed by what he thought was really quite disturbing news.

"I'll be a laughingstock," he bemoaned.

"Professor Snape knows how to keep information to himself, Harry," she chided gently.

"I'm not arguing he doesn't know _how_," Harry grumbled, "I'm arguing that he won't _in my case_. He'll probably announce it at the next Order meeting."

She laughed outright at this. "Oh, lighten up, Harry. He won't do any such thing." He opened his mouth to ask why not, but she kept going: "I promise. Now, are you going to have fun with your daughter, or am I out here freezing my arse off for no reason?"

He contemplated a brisk reply about controlling know-it-alls, but suspected that would result in her developing a new and painful-for-him purpose in being outside. He therefore contented himself with a curt nod. She'd gotten awfully odd after those two summers of brewing potions. Of course, who _wouldn't_ end up mental after that kind of stress?

With a last smile at him, Hermione returned to her squabbling teammates. Hmm…. Maybe he could blackmail the Potions professor with the knowledge that he had been _chaperoning_ their play? Although, on reflection, he wasn't sure attempting to blackmail the head of Slytherin was a worthwhile risk. More like suicide, actually. Perhaps he'd just have to trust his friend's word on the matter, although, unless _she_ had clever blackmail material at her disposal, he wasn't sure how she could be so certain about the snarky man's actions.

Hermione seemed to sense that he hadn't given up his former train of thought, because a moment later she declared the battle begun, and then Harry had no time for thought of any sort. Ron, it was clear, had the greatest experience. He was quite skilled at lobbing multiple balls at multiple targets while ducking out of the way of any projectiles flying in his direction. Draco and Hermione might not have engaged in this particular activity terribly often, but they were both swots; the two of them actually knew the spells that summoned wind, snow, sleet, and hail (although, in deference to Calla, he thought, they were being restrained about their use of this last).

Harry managed a Multiplication Charm on the snowballs, but it was difficult to divide his attention between throwing them, helping Calla throw them, and watching what was being sent from the trio opposite so that he could protect himself and his daughter.

They were doing alright until either Hermione or Draco made the brilliant realization that not only could they make the weather colder and more unpleasant, they could also make it warmer. So while they continued to lob snowballs at Harry and Calla, the latter's wall began to melt away in front of their very eyes, exposing them to their opponents. Harry simply couldn't divide his concentration yet again to see about fixing the fortification.

He discovered, quite by accident, that concentrating on protecting Calla was the key to victory. A particularly large snowball escaped his notice until it had speeded its way nearly to her head. He was too far away to protect her conventionally, and there was too little time to think of and execute the proper spell. Instead, Harry panicked, knowing only that he couldn't let anything happen to her. The next thing he knew, she was sheltered by his side, and a colossal gust of wind had knocked down the other team … before covering them in a good half meter of snow.

Harry stared at his accomplishment with absolutely _no_ idea how he had achieved it. The look on Hermione's and Draco's faces as they dug themselves out of the snow was enough to make Harry laugh, and since a beaming Calla was prancing around them declaring so proudly: "We won, we won, we won!", it was impossible for them to express themselves as they no doubt wished. Ron merely rose, brushing himself off and good-naturedly congratulating the ecstatic little girl. Harry wondered if the redhead had really matured that much, or if he and Hermione needed to see about putting Ron in the apparently beneficial presence of small children more frequently.

Hermione, still looking mildly disgruntled, especially as all Harry could do was shrug and attempt to look apologetic, took charge of smoothing over the snowfall on the pitch so that it was not immediately discernible what they had been up to. She followed this up with Disillusioning them for the trip back into the castle, and a blissfully-happy, rosy-cheeked Calla offered one hand to Harry and the other to Draco. This, Harry discovered, allowed them to swing her over what would have been multiple steps on the ground, apparently her preferred method of travel when the snow was so deep.

Since they all continued trooping up the stairs to the seventh floor (Harry got to carry Calla after the second floor) rather than parting on the ground floor, Harry assumed that the evening was not yet over, a fact which was confirmed when they arrived at the Room of Requirement. After a moment in which Harry assumed Hermione was passing before the wall, the door appeared, and the Gryffindor girl ushered them inside.

Once behind the safely-closed door, Harry cancelled the charm on himself and Calla, and witnessed the return to normal pigmentation of Draco and Ron, as well. There was still no sign of Hermione. Feeling very foolish, Harry ventured a "Hermione" and got no response (other than a giggle from Calla). When he realized she must still be on the other side of the door, he figured out what she was doing, and, after a moment's consideration, shrugged it off. Better her thanking Professor Snape than him.

The next order of business was shedding outdoor gear and making sure everyone was dry and warm. This was easily accomplished, as the Room had provided a roaring fire in a huge fireplace and copious amounts of large, fluffy towels and fuzzy, warm-looking sleepwear (which Calla greeted with such enthusiasm that it would have felt totally heartless to tell her that they didn't particularly want to wear it in each other's presence). Hermione reappeared as they were making judicious use of a charm or three and the Room's provender; Harry had to admit that there was something very satisfying about physically-provided warmth that a charm couldn't quite match. If he felt foolish in green fleece, it helped that his daughter had chosen the same colour to match him, and he had only to look around him to see that everyone was in the same boat (although the fact that Draco still somehow managed to look hot in fuzzy blue pyjamas was rather unfair).

A few moments later, they were all happily ensconced in front of the cozily-crackling fire with mugs of hot cocoa. Although the large and squishy chairs were reminiscent of the Gryffindor Common Room's stock, they were of a more neutral earthy brown. Calla had insisted on climbing into the same chair as her dad, and the piece of furniture had widened even further to accommodate them comfortably. _Whoever made this room was a genius_, Harry thought.

Many of Harry's bottled-up feelings began to dissipate when his daughter proceeded to enthusiastically relay to him many of the events of the past two weeks. It really helped that she was so affected by her reunion with him.

"And then Aunt Pansy said it was a miracle Gryffindors made it out of bed in the morning. I wanted to say that that was funny because she—" Hermione cleared her throat loudly, interrupting the little girl. Calla blushed, shot Hermione an apologetic look, and continued: "But I remembered that I was pretending to be a Slytherin, so I just smiled with everyone else."

Harry wondered at Hermione's knack for knowing just when Calla was about to say something she shouldn't. Harry wondered if it was a product of biting her own tongue in third year. How much had she known and not given away? Then what Calla had said caught his attention.

"_Pretending_ to be a Slytherin?" he queried. "Are you my little Gryffindor, then?"

She giggled. "You and Father have this fight all the time. I'm not eleven yet, silly. Nobody knows."

Looking down at the grinning face, Harry suspected that not only did she know exactly where she was going, her current placement was not a coincidence, but he didn't say so. The Prat would be insufferable, but Harry would love her anyway.

"Silly me," he agreed. "What do you think of Potions class?"

Calla continued to wax eloquent until her mug of cocoa was empty, at which point she curled up and fell asleep with her head pillowed against Harry's side and her thumb in her mouth. She looked incredibly young.

Harry watched with a mixture of bemusement and appreciation as Hermione dragged Ron off to the other side of the room, which obediently grew from average-sized to large, affording them some privacy. He spared only a moment of consideration for what they were talking about (How fast _could_ Hermione switch from snowball fights to homework?) because now he was alone with Draco. And he'd be damned if he spoke first to the Great Prat. Even if it was hard to be _so_ angry with him when he'd just been engaged in a snowball fight and their daughter was curled up asleep next to Harry … and Draco looked beautiful in the half-light of the flickering fire, curled up in a chair a few feet away from Harry, feet neatly tucked under him. It was a very domestic scene, and apparently those made Harry go to mush.

"I'm sorry."

The silence had stretched for several minutes, and Harry was so startled by the softly-spoken words that his head whipped up with comic suddenness.

"What?" he demanded, stunned.

There was a slight pause, and then the quiet response: "I didn't realize."

It wasn't at all how he'd anticipated this conversation going. If Draco had apologized to him (and he hadn't ever seriously expected _that_), there would have to be some serious grovelling, and Harry was going to be righteously angry and make the Slytherin sweat a bit. Instead, any of his lingering negative emotions drained right away. That was the most open utterance Draco had ever made to him, and Harry swallowed against a sudden lump in his throat.

"It's alright," Harry said. And then, since Draco had made such an effort: "It _was_ the only plan that made sense."

Draco smiled faintly. "Thanks, Potter."

"Harry," the Gryffindor invited.

Draco looked at him for a long moment with his grey eyes, the dim light making it impossible for Harry to read anything in them.

"Harry," the Slytherin conceded.

It was the first time Draco had ever spoken the Gryffindor's given name without it being attached to his surname and filled with rancour. Harry now felt about as warm and fuzzy as his pyjamas. Maybe Draco wasn't _such_ a prat after all. Now, the silence between them was comfortable.

The evening wound down, Draco scooping up the still-sleeping Calla and departing with her first, the Gryffindor Trio remaining for a few more minutes to avoid suspicion. Harry gave in to impulse and hugged Hermione and then Ron, too. They both looked surprised, but pleased, by his spontaneous display of physical affection.

"Thank you," he said sincerely. "That meant the world to me."

"You're very welcome," Hermione responded, smiling at him.

For the first time in what felt like forever, Harry fell immediately to sleep once his head touched the pillow.

* * *

Harry woke up in an unusually cheerful mood. 

It lasted through his morning ablutions and descent into the common room, where his disposition evidently manifested itself clearly enough that a handful of people who had not spoken to him in days ventured to wish him a good morning (which he returned cordially).

It lasted through the beginnings of breakfast, even the sight of Calla with Draco only making him smile indulgently (and causing Hermione to give him a warning nudge so that he could school his expression appropriately).

It lasted until the delivery of the _Daily Prophet_, where the eye-catching hundred-point font screamed the headline:

_**He Who Must Not Be Named Makes his Move: Death Eaters Broken Out of Azkaban!**_

Lucius Malfoy was free.

* * *

**Author's Note**: You can probably pick plenty of holes in Harry's logic in this chapter, but that's the idea. Also, apologies to anyone who may have had disturbing flashbacks to _OotP_; here, Harry recognized he had a problem, and it was a short chapter, right? Actually, it was a lot of fun to write, but I've got it out of my system now, I promise. We've also made it halfway through the story, chapter-wise (but the chapters keep getting longer, so it's not halfway word-wise). 

_Next up_: What is Voldemort up to?

* * *


	5. Into the Fire

**Author's Note**: This story is neither _HBP_ nor _DH_ compliant. _Feedback is always appreciated; reviews feed my muse and make me smile._

This chapter contains depictions of violence that may be disturbing to some readers.

**Anti-Litigation Charm**: It all belongs to JKR; I play for my non-profit amusement.

* * *

_**It All Started when the Girl Fell from the Sky**_

by Silver Birch

_Chapter Five: Into the Fire_

Despite what Hermione had at first expected, the last three weeks had passed much more enjoyably than the first two following Calla's arrival. Although the Death Eater threat lurked constantly on the periphery of all their minds, Voldemort had not stepped up his attacks since he had rescued his followers from the wizarding prison. Everyone knew the Death Eaters were free because they were no longer in Azkaban, but there had not been a single reliable sighting of even one convicted follower of Voldemort since the escape. So while attacks continued to take place, primarily against Muggle-borns and their families, the release of the imprisoned followers of Voldemort might as well not have happened for all the effect it seemed to have on current activities. Harry said it made him nervous, and Hermione agreed with him wholeheartedly, but there were no hints to give them a correct direction in which to constructively worry.

In fact, the rumour that suggested that all the escapees had gone abroad was steadily gaining ground day by day, but the Order at least had a reliable source to deny _that_ (and as Harry had pointed out cynically, he'd known straight away it couldn't be true, because there was no way he could be so lucky). Severus reported that the Dark Lord was quite self-congratulatory about the return of his confined Death Eaters, even though he was still displeased with them for failing him in the Department of Mysteries. The meetings also contained plenty of ranting about Harry and hinting at big plans, but as that was business as usual, Severus noted with disgust, there was nothing definitive or useful which the Potions master could bring back to the anxious Order.

Malfoy and the other escaped convicts were holed up with Voldemort at an undisclosed location; the rooms to which the other Death Eaters had access had neither windows nor doors to the exterior, so Severus had not been able to ascertain even a general notion of where they hiding. They could rule out Malfoy Manor and other traditional haunts, as these were under the strict watch of the Ministry (although Hermione wondered disparagingly how strict it could possibly be, since Severus had also informed them that Narcissa had been present and reunited with her husband at the two meetings which the head of Slytherin had attended). The vast majority of Britain was left as a possible location of the new headquarters, and neither the Order nor the Ministry had the manpower to effect such a search.

Draco had made it clear that his father was not a topic he wished to discuss, and as Lucius Malfoy was hardly one of Hermione's favourite people, she consented easily. Severus had relayed to her (and she to Harry) that a brief inquiry had revealed that Lucius had not attempted to enter into contact with his son since his escape. Hermione believed strongly that if anyone felt the need to question the Malfoy heir about the habits, haunts, or possible whereabouts of his father, it was Severus who should get the honour, because otherwise there was no hope of keeping everyone calm and rational during the discussion. Fortunately, the Ministry appeared to be using that small quota of common sense that they possessed, recognizing that the seventh-year boy stuck at Hogwarts was even less likely to be a gold mine of information than his mother, who had proved quite intractable.

The Gryffindor girl had no liking for the elder Malfoys, but had somehow softened a little towards them since she had gotten to know Draco, and she couldn't help but smile a little at the image of the hapless Ministry officials confronted with the haughty Malfoy on her own estate. If Hermione and Harry could fall for Severus and Draco, it hardly seemed fair to simply dismiss the rest of the Malfoys. On the other hand, she was sure that Ginny had very specific feelings about Lucius Malfoy, feelings which Hermione echoed for Antonin Dolohov, and which Harry felt in spades towards Bellatrix Lestrange. And her little mental imagining became rather less amusing if she envisioned Tonks or Kingsley Shacklebolt performing their duty and being rebuffed by a snobbish Narcissa Malfoy. The Gryffindor let out a gusty sigh. Sometimes the shades of grey they were dealing with were a little trying.

Since no one officially knew anything about the Malfoys or the other escaped Death Eaters (and since those who unofficially did knew nothing useful), Harry and the Order were left playing the waiting game, trying to get on with their lives as though everything were normal. With N.E.W.T.s being less than four months away, Hermione certainly had plenty that she could concentrate on instead. She was pleased that Severus had not yet felt it incumbent upon himself to point out that thanks to him she now had one less N.E.W.T. to worry about than everyone else. Although, maybe that was less consideration for her and more his trying not to think about it, as it meant he had given a distinct advantage to the Gryffindor Brain.

Subsequent to Draco's return to Harry's good graces (Thank God!), they had fallen into a comfortable, if misleading, routine. Thanks to the Potions master, the school—and the Slytherins in particular—had been inveigled into believing that there was nothing odd about Hermione taking care of Calla when Draco or Severus were busy; primarily, it was amusing to the Slytherins that Severus assigned her detentions in so blatantly unfair a manner whenever he did not wish to deal with the child. While the amusement value would be higher for them if it were Harry being so-punished, it was readily conceded by anyone with an ounce of common sense that putting the Boy Who Lived in charge of the Malfoy Bastard would be a foolish plan. Although many of the dungeon inhabitants might look down on _Potter's Mudblood_, they were fully convinced that the Head Girl wasn't about to jeopardize the safety of any child, or sully her pristine reputation, for a little bit of revenge. Capable of being as disingenuous as she was adorable, Calla had no trouble persuading the Slytherins that she was not overly enamoured of this "detention time".

Today, Hermione was attending Calla in the lab after dinner because Severus was brewing a rather complicated philter that required all his attention. When her attempt to discover what, specifically, he was brewing resulted in a scathing glare, she gathered that it was a particularly nasty concoction for the Dark Lord. Despite her two summers of brewing with Severus, he still displayed the oddest scruples at times. Catching sight of some of the more outlandish and Dark ingredients on the table currently, Hermione reflected that perhaps his consideration wasn't completely unwarranted. She and Calla retired forthwith to the other side of the room to continue with their much tamer and entirely-legal potion lesson.

Severus was still hard at work when their rudimentary burn salve had been cooled and bottled, so Hermione settled Calla onto her lap and continued with the little girl's literature education. Calla seemed delighted with Hermione's choices, and if Draco occasionally shuddered when he overheard whatever they were reading, well, so much the better. There was no time like the present to begin pure-blood reeducation (and since she'd caught the blond Slytherin actively listening when she'd started reading _The Hobbit_ during the last detention, she had hopes for him yet).

After each chapter thus far, they had had a lively discussion about the differences between that magical world and their own. Calla had laughed herself silly at the idea that trolls turned to stone in the sunlight (and she had evidently heard about Hermione's run-in with one in first year, because she had slyly inquired about the presence of windows in the girl's loo), but she was equally determined to keep her eyes out for those quick-to-hide hobbits. Hermione thought it was all to the good if the reading made them think critically about the world in which they lived, and she loved the fact that Calla was so taken with the non-magical creatures in Tolkien's world.

A short while later, they were startled out of the world of Middle-earth by the sound of breaking glass. Looking over, Hermione saw a broken vial on the flagstones in front of Severus … who stood there, clutching his left forearm. The Gryffindor quickly set the book on the table in front of them and clapped her hands over Calla's ears just in time. Hermione didn't even know all the words that flowed smoothly and fluently off Severus's tongue, and she didn't suppose now was the time to ask.

Whirling as he remembered them, Severus's grim visage lightened slightly, his lips quirking up at the sight of them and their unusual position. He gave her a nod of appreciation, and ducked through his office and into his quarters for the necessary wardrobe change, raising his voice to issue the necessary instructions at the same time.

"Let Albus know I'm gone. There was no indication that the Dark Lord would call us this speedily again, but he is, as ever, unpredictable. Besides, a Friday evening 'adventure' of some sort is hardly out of the common way." Hermione wondered if he even realized that he was taking the time to reassure her. He was often more perceptive than he let on, and he had passed enough nights at Grimmauld Place to know that she waited up, every time, until he returned safely, no matter how disparaging he was of her for her actions. He continued: "I suspect the potion is ruined, but summon Draco to see if anything can be salvaged." He reemerged, mask dangling from one hand. "I will return."

She nodded solemnly, bitterly hating that he had to leave. Surprisingly, Calla squirmed out of Hermione's lap and across the room to wrap her arms around Severus's middle. After a startled instant, he hugged her back fleetingly, and then gently pushed the little girl back towards Hermione. The Gryffindor wished that she was allowed to mimic Calla, but had to content herself with meeting Severus's eyes one last time. In a flurry of heavy robes, the Slytherin had turned and was out the door, and Hermione knew she wouldn't see him again until he'd endured yet another meeting with a maniac.

Since Voldemort was on the short list of topics they did not raise with Calla, Hermione was uncertain exactly what the girl knew of Severus's involvement with him, but the young child very docilely followed Hermione into Severus's office so that the older girl could Firecall the headmaster as instructed.

Dumbledore took the news without his usual twinkle, preventing Hermione from too seriously considering voicing her opinion that Severus wouldn't _have_ to go if Dumbledore didn't ask it of him. The headmaster assured her that he would contact Draco and promised to advise her as soon as Severus returned. His look when he said this, however, told her that he knew full well she would know before he did; they had an unspoken agreement that as long as he didn't make a fuss about Severus returning to her first, she consented to patching the Slytherin up and allowing him to report to the headmaster rather than force-feeding him a Sleeping Draught and not letting him out of bed until he was fully recovered.

Message delivered, Hermione returned with Calla to the classroom and to their discarded book, although no more reading was done while they waited for Draco's arrival. Calla was very still and quiet, and Hermione was too worried to pull herself properly together, let alone to work on the morale of someone else. It was a long quarter of an hour before the blond Slytherin appeared. Taking one look at them sitting there so morosely, he sneered.

"I thought I was paying for quality lessons, Granger."

This surprised a moderately-genuine half laugh out of her, and she nodded her appreciation of his attempt to lighten the mood, playing along.

"My apologies, Lord Malfoy," she simpered, batting her eyelashes at him in a manner copied directly from Lavender Brown. "Might I have just one more chance?"

He affected consideration. "Well," he said in a put-upon voice, "since the help around here is so abysmal, I suppose I have no choice."

"So very magnanimous, my lord," Hermione thanked him.

Calla was quietly giggling at their absurd behaviour, and Hermione smiled more genuinely as the little girl climbed back into her lap and pulled their reading material into Hermione's reach.

Draco, fatherly duty done, moved across the lab to Severus's potion, and Hermione and Calla resumed their story, progressing through the Last Homely House, which resulted in a mid-chapter clarifying discussion on the differences between Tolkien's elves and those which Calla knew. They agreed that each made excellent food, but the similarities ended there.

"Ew! What is this crap?"

They looked up at the interruption to see an absolutely disgusted-looking Draco allowing a spoonful of the chunky, oily, vomit-coloured potion he had achieved to plop back into the cauldron from which he had ladled it. This concoction looked even worse than Polyjuice, and that was a concession indeed; Hermione was glad she wasn't close enough to smell it properly. _Guess that's a definitive "no" on the potion being salvageable_, Hermione thought wryly.

"I believe it is an unmitigated disaster, Malfoy," Hermione responded, despite knowing his question had been rhetorical. "Professor Snape didn't think you could do much with it, but he wanted to make sure."

Calla giggled quietly to herself, as she did every time Hermione called Severus "Professor Snape". The Gryffindor supposed she should be grateful that the little girl did it fairly subtly. Fortunately, the others were now more or less used to Calla getting a kick out of inexplicable things.

Grumbling about sneaky Slytherins who only wanted slave labour to clean up for them, Draco set about disposing of the failed potion, which took far less time than his complaining suggested. Afterwards, he settled himself into the chair nearest his daughter, across an aisle but in the same row as Calla and Hermione. He coolly informed the Gryffindor that he would have to pick his daughter up soon enough anyway, so he might as well stay. Hermione politely accepted his patently false excuse, and made sure to read loudly enough for him to hear, as well.

She resumed: "'It turned out a good thing that night that they had brought little Bilbo with them, after all. For, somehow, he could not go to sleep for a long while; and when he did sleep, he had very nasty dreams. He dreamed that a crack in the wall at the back of the cave got bigger and bigger, and opened wider and wider, and he was very afraid but could not call out or do anything but lie and look.'" Calla shifted worriedly in Hermione's lap, and Hermione hugged her closer as she continued theatrically: "'Then he dreamed that the floor of the cave was giving way, and he was slipping – beginning to fall down, down, goodness knows where to.'"

Calla was listening with bated breath. "'At that he woke up with a horrible start,'" Calla breathed a sigh of relief, which was minutely echoed by the Slytherin across from her, causing Hermione to fight a smile as she continued, "'and found that part of his dream was true. A crack had opened at the back of the cave,'" Calla gasped, "'and was already a wide passage. He was just in time to see the last of the ponies' tails disappearing into it. Of course he gave a very loud yell, as loud a yell as a hobbit can give, which is surprising for their size. Out jumped the goblins'–" Calla started, and that's when things went horribly wrong.

Hermione, feeling the unmistakable tug of a Portkey behind her navel, looked down and discovered that Calla was clutching a small object in her hands. The young woman just had time to look up again and catch sight of Draco's startled eyes before the world blurred out of focus. Closing her eyes against the nausea-inducing vortex of colours surrounding them, she tightened her hold on the child in her arms and held on for dear life.

They landed hard in a crumpled heap, and as she opened her eyes and got her bearings, a rather disoriented Hermione reflected woozily that she would gladly pay good money to join Bilbo and a whole host of hungry and pissed off goblins right now, because this was the stuff _her_ nightmares were made of.

They were in a large room made of what looked to her like marble. There were no windows, but lots of old-looking tapestries adorned the walls, and several large crystal chandeliers adorned the ceiling. Unfortunately, Voldemort didn't appear to be slumming as he hid with his escaped followers. That was as much notice as she managed to take of her surroundings, because what concerned her a great deal more was her ability to reach her wand without catching the notice of the people in front of her. Or people-like creatures. _Damn_. Harry really hadn't managed to explain how inhuman and just plain _creepy_ Voldemort looked. Red eyes and slits for nostrils simply was _not_ natural. As the creature that had once been Tom Riddle rose from the throne-like chair on the dais across from them to descend to floor-level and come closer, Hermione saw that his movements were completely unnatural as well. She couldn't even describe precisely what was wrong with him, just that her aversion was instinctive in an "involuntary shudder" sort of way. They were in some sort of reception area, apparently, and were about to be received by the wizard in charge.

Calla backed up as far away from the menacing figure as she could, squinching herself up against Hermione and letting out a little whimper of fear. The Gryffindor took the opportunity to attempt a Side-Along-Apparition, not terribly surprised when it didn't work, but knowing she'd always have wondered if she hadn't tried that possible escape option. Bellatrix made herself known, cackling merrily at the child's terror, and Hermione recognized Pettigrew next, half-cringing, half-grinning, at the mad woman's side. Hermione's hand inched another centimeter closer to her goal. Ah, and there on the left were Narcissa and a haunted-looking Lucius, three weeks having not erased the more than a year and a half in Azkaban. Hermione was reminded, unwillingly, of Sirius when they had first met him. Behind the couple was a wild-looking Dolohov, and Hermione shifted her gaze quickly away. Just a little further to her wand-sheath…. Off to the right was a blank-faced Severus, and behind him more Death Eaters that Hermione didn't have time to recognize or didn't know. They were thronging the room, and the Gryffindor knew that she and Calla were completely out of luck: Not one of them was wearing a mask.

Almost as though he had been waiting for her to recognize the hopelessness of the situation, only now did Voldemort raise his wand, just before Hermione could clasp her own.

"_Accio Portkeys. Accio wands_," he said, his high, cold voice sending shivers down her spine.

Hermione's wand and her gold Galleon flew from her person to land with twin thumps in Voldemort's hand, followed by the object Hermione had still to identify out of Calla's hand and the metal charm that tore itself off of the chain around her neck.

"Well, well, well," Voldemort said mockingly. "What luck. I had heard that the Mudblood was spending time with the child, but I was not informed that you were close enough to warrant this perfect delivery. Nott will have to be rewarded."

Hermione spared a moment to wish a very painful death upon the Slytherin who had betrayed them. At the same time, she shifted a little, so that Calla was half-shielded from everyone's immediate line of sight. Since they were now unarmed, as far as Voldemort could tell, he allowed the movement, apparently chalking it up to fear.

"Would you care to place a bet on how long it will take Gryffindor's _Golden Boy_," he sneered the name with an impressive amount of venom, "to rise to such irresistible bait?"

As Voldemort possessed even better bait than he knew, Hermione remained silent. The Dark Lord laughed, the sound more evil than Hermione had thought any expression of amusement could possibly be.

"Perhaps once I've received the answers I desire about the child, I'll send him a note to come retrieve his Mudblood whore."

_Well, really, the one hardly implies the other_, Hermione thought indignantly.

"I had other plans for your doomed friend, but the occasion you have offered me is rather irresistible."

Oh, right, like this was all _her_ fault.

"Now," he continued, "I've spoken to Lucius," out of the corner of her eyes, Hermione saw a shudder ripple through the blond at those hissed words, "and he is _quite_ certain that he has no by-blows wandering the country. Who, then, is this little Malfoy clone? Why is she at Hogwarts? And why, precisely," he hissed the word, "is she so close to you?"

Deciding that discretion really was the better part of valour, Hermione remained silent, meeting Voldemort's eyes defiantly.

It was like being pierced through the forehead with an ice pick. Nothing could have prepared Hermione for what it felt like to have Voldemort trying to rip into her mind. Tears sprang to her eyes and she knew she made an involuntary sound of pain. But with everything at stake, Hermione would be damned if she brought about the deaths of anyone else due to a weakness on her part. She concentrated with all her formidable mental power, and by sheer force of will, kept the Dark Lord from getting past her mental shield and into her now-pounding head.

Finally, he withdrew, eyes narrowed to veriest slits, perhaps disturbed to display continued failure in front of his minions. Hermione drew deep, shuddering breaths, thoroughly pissed off and thanking every god she had ever heard of that Severus had insisted, before he allowed her to work with him, that she know how to properly Occlude. It was unfortunate that she wouldn't ever get to thank him for his forethought and apologize for ever thinking that he had been too rough with her during her training.

The sessions had actually been a little embarrassing at first, because she had not proceeded at the accelerated rate that he had evidently been anticipating. Despite what she had implied at the time, she had understood his instructions quite well and had no trouble grasping the concept; that had been the problem. Hermione wasn't called a know-it-all and a bookworm for no reason. No, she learned copiously, often by rote. She could still recite Severus's speech to his first years, she organized her ingredients as he organized his ingredients, and she knew she'd picked up sundry other laboratory mannerisms from him as well. By the same token, she had known that if she ever ended up in a situation like the one she was in now, if she wasn't very careful, it would be immediately clear exactly who had taught her Occlumency. She had therefore delayed her lessons until she'd worked out her own type of shielding that worked as effectively as Severus's but wouldn't immediately scream "Severus is loyal to Dumbledore!" to Voldemort. As far as she could tell, she had successfully hid her reasoning from the Potions master; it seemed a safe bet now that she was never going to be subjected to any snarky commentary on the matter.

Well, if she was going to die, never let it be said she wasn't a Gryffindor. She found her voice with some difficulty, but forged ahead gamely.

"Even Harry can Occlude," she said disparagingly. "What do you think Dumbledore does at Hogwarts all day, eat sherbet lemons?"

_Hah_, she thought defiantly. She'd managed to bring up _both_ of the people he hated most in all the world.

The Dark Lord hissed at her in anger, and a mutter went up amongst the Death Eaters. She knew her distraction had been successful when the little girl at her side slumped suddenly to the ground.

Bellatrix cackled. "Has the ickle bitty girl fainted?" she demanded gleefully.

Many of the other Death Eaters laughed, as well, and Hermione had to agree with Harry's dislike of the woman and her baby talk. She was _way_ too many crayons short of a box.

When Pettigrew, sent with a negligent wave of Voldemort's hand to wake the little girl, discovered the potion vial clutched in her hand, the amusement in the room vanished instantly.

"_Incarcerus_. What did you give her?" Voldemort demanded, incensed.

Hermione stared at him mutinously, careful not to move so that her bonds would not tighten further. Really, it was rather a case of closing the barn door after the horse was long gone; Calla had been wearing that potion for weeks, and Hermione, rather unfortunately, she now thought, had never considered making some for herself.

"_Imperio! _Tell me what you gave her," Voldemort demanded intensely, stepping closer so he could tower over her in all his snake-like glory.

After only a moment's fierce effort, Hermione was able to push the disorienting contentment away and purse her lips at the crazy would-be dictator in front of her.

"Harry mastered that at fourteen. Did your sources at Hogwarts fail to mention how many N.E.W.T.s I'm going to sit?"

With the analytical part of her mind, she wondered if it was the case that Harry had been in far more life-threatening situations than she had been in, and that was why he was capable of being so cheeky all the time. Because now that she was here, the words just kept coming out; it seemed as though the Hat had been right after all – to hell with being polite and obedient.

"Severus!" Voldemort snapped, stepping back.

The Potions master bent to examine Calla. Since forgetting herself and asking for some assistance was not an option, Hermione made herself turn away from him, as though in disgust or fury, and found herself looking at Lucius Malfoy instead. The man's attention was fixed on Calla, and Hermione could not identify the expression on his face. It was as though he were staring at a puzzle that he couldn't quite solve. Hermione suddenly had the distinct impression that the older man knew he was looking at a Malfoy, but couldn't figure out how that was possible. He and Narcissa both, Hermione realized with puzzlement of her own, looked the slightest bit horrified at the proceedings. The Gryffindor had not anticipated that.

"It appears to be only the Draught of Living Death," Severus pronounced dispassionately a moment later. "I need to brew the antidote, but the child will be fully restored."

"How long?" Voldemort demanded brusquely.

"At least an hour, I'm afraid, my lord," Severus said apologetically, "and I will need to test it on the girl."

"Then take her with you and get to work," Voldemort ordered, dismissing them curtly.

Hermione couldn't quite prevent herself from looking back in time to see Severus incline his head and then scoop the little burden into his arms. Without another word, he withdrew.

The look Voldemort turned on her now was predatory.

"What _shall_ we do to pass the time?"

Hermione's breath froze in her throat. Now that Calla was safely got out of the way, it was firmly sinking into her brain that she was Harry Potter's Muggle-born best friend. She spared a fleeting moment to be glad that Severus wasn't here to witness this … or to take part.

Voldemort levelled his wand at her.

_Oh god, oh god, oh god._

All that hatred. All directed at her.

Where was reckless Harry rushing to the rescue when you needed him?

"_Crucio_."

_Oh. Holy. Fuck._ She really needed to give Harry a stern talking-to, because he had failed utterly in his descriptions of everything Voldemort-related. He had definitely never managed to express just how much the Cruciatus hurt. It was tiny, red-hot pokers connecting with every nerve-ending in her body. It was acupuncture gone horribly, horribly awry. Surely Voldemort should need to raise his voice to inflict this level of pain? Occlumency allowed her to divorce herself and think snarky commentary only so much, nine-tenths of her brain preoccupied with the fiery agony consuming her body.

With the remaining one-tenth of her mental acuity, she found herself recalling her mother (safely squirrelled away with Hermione's father under the Fidelius ever since the attacks had increased in sixth year) and her admonition that no matter what the situation, one was always in control of one's language; a situation might be deteriorating beyond any hope of salvation, but it behoved a well-bred person to mind his or her tongue. Hermione loved her mother dearly, but was forced to concede, with empirical evidence, that being tortured turned out to be one of those times when there was bloody good reason _not _to mind one's language – if it gave one the slightest edge of much-needed defiance or quirky black humour, it was very useful indeed. With something akin to shock, Hermione realized that she was in the position to hope that her mother never had to change her mind, never had to learn this lesson as Hermione had.

_It should be marked down in a tome somewhere as a historical moment: Hermione Granger concedes that there are some things better left unlearnt._ All things being equal, she rather thought she could have learnt that lesson without being tortured first, thank you very much.

When Voldemort released her from the curse, she was sobbing, twitching uncontrollably, and shuddering inwardly as she wondered how long Neville's parents had endured this hell before their minds had refused to take anymore. Her inadvertent movements while under the curse had cruelly tightened her bonds; unfortunately, in her current situation, that was the least of her problems. There was no way she could differentiate between possibly broken bones and the overall residual agony from the Unforgivable. It was like being covered head to foot in really angry fire ants. Or at least how she _imagined_ that would feel, as she'd never actually been covered in the insects …. She was sort of starting to see why Harry had such trouble describing his Voldemort-related experiences; they rather defied description.

The Gryffindor refocussed on the here and now, looking blearily at all the Death Eaters in the room and wondering what the hell was wrong with them. It wasn't that some or most of them enjoyed watching her suffer as she had (not that that was a point in their favour). It wasn't even that they might wish to be casting the curse themselves (although, again, that was not a detail she thought they ought to put on their business cards). No, what she couldn't quite comprehend at the moment was the fact that they were all still following the wizard who performed _this curse_ on those same followers. They knew that at any moment they might be subjected to the Cruciatus (amongst many other painful curses, of course), and they still came every time he Summoned them. Sure, she knew what tended to happen to those, like Karkaroff, who attempted to desert, but, honestly, if she had the option of picking right now between frequent torture and death … it was rapidly becoming a no-brainer.

"Not that your screams aren't quite delightful, my dear, but perhaps there's something else you wish to tell me?" Voldemort asked.

She wanted to tell him he didn't do mock-sweet well at all, but having not even been aware that she was screaming during her torture, she thought that perhaps she should marshall her strength.

This was a wise decision, it turned out, as her lack of response resulted in round two of his Legilimency attack. And while it did feel a bit as though her brain were slowly dribbling out of her ears, she emerged victorious once more. Surely someone had mentioned to Voldemort that her mind was her best asset?

Sighing, she conceded the abysmal timing of Harry finally learning the "must not rush headlong into danger unknown" lesson when it was _she_ who needed rescuing. Or had Severus already got Calla back to Hogwarts, and Hermione had been deemed unfortunate collateral damage? An acceptable loss? Fuck, that sucked.

When the clearly-enraged egomaniac suddenly released Hermione's bonds, the Gryffindor thought he'd gone round the twist. Sure, she was in no position to make a sudden break for it, but consideration of any sort was not part of his repertoire. When Voldemort motioned Dolohov over with an evil smirk and an admonition of "no wand", his actions began to make a lot more sense. _O-kay_, she thought, reevaluating. _Points to snake-man for picking the Death Eater who's most pissed off with me_.

Having basically lost all motor control, Hermione didn't bother to try to fight the leering man off. Her convulsing limbs made his job more awkward all on their own, but eventually he manoeuvred himself into the proper position.

What she really wanted at the moment was to be able to give all the Death Eaters a piece of her mind about this topic. Where was the sense in believing that Muggles and Muggle-borns were inferior but it was okay to have sex with them? Theoretically, she understood that rape was supposed to be an assertion of power, but she thought it was nonsensical, especially as this assertion was made over those they were about to kill anyway. Besides, with their beliefs, wouldn't that still be contaminating themselves? Wouldn't it be analogous to consorting with animals or something?

And, okay, maybe she just wasn't a voyeur type of person, but what could be more awkward than sex with a non-consenting and non-participating partner in front of all your peers? You were bound to come out of it looking a complete fool. Whoever had come up with these edicts was a complete fruitcake. She caught sight of Voldemort, a fierce eagerness in his glowing red eyes. _Right. Complete fruitcake. Never mind._

Since she couldn't quite summon the energy and oral eloquence to share her thoughts, she found it distinctly satisfying to see what was supposed to be Dolohov's moment of victory convert into disaster when he was flung across the room, bowling over four other Death Eaters so that they all landed in a messy groaning heap on the floor. Hermione even managed a light snicker, although it turned into a bit of a hacking cough at the end. The flattened bystanders were complaining loudly as they rose to their feet, and those around them were speculating wildly.

Dolohov rose up as well, an even more crazy light now in his eyes. "You'll pay for that, Mudblood!"

A raised finger and a sharp "Dolohov!" from Voldemort halted the man's charge back to Hermione.

"Bella?" Voldemort requested silkily.

With her own maniacal smirk, the woman cast several spells over Hermione, evil smile turning to puzzled frown at the negative result of each charm.

"I see no sign of a Chastity Charm, my lord," she said finally, "but have performed all the counter-curses."

"Very well," Voldemort said, not sounding terribly pleased, before admonishing, "Dolohov, again."

Dolohov, in a rare moment of clarity, Hermione thought, looked sensibly hesitant in the wake of Bellatrix's news, but at an impatient gesture from his master, he approached Hermione once more.

Attempt number two went as well as the first one had, and since this time the other Death Eaters had moved out of the way of his likely trajectory, he hit the ground hard, and stayed down, apparently unconscious.

"What has the Mudblood bookworm done to protect herself?" Voldemort asked.

Did he really expect her to answer that?

"_Crucio_," he intoned for the second time.

Ah, no, it was just a rhetorical prelude to another round of gratuitous violence.

Unfortunately, repeated exposure didn't seem to be inuring her to the effects of this stupid curse. How twisted did you have to be to invent it? Of course, Muggles had invented some pretty horrific things, too, oftentimes inadvertently, but, really, what positive benefit could it possibly … the thought shivered off into incoherent pain.

Hermione lay limply on the ground, beginning to like the floor more and more as she allowed it to support her, the cool surface marginally soothing to her burning skin, although she could do without the random muscle spasms that were making her jerk against it. She had writhed her way onto her back, and was staring up at the vaulted ceiling that had a lot of cobwebs festooning it. _Must tell the cleaning service that they missed a spot_.

"Cat got your tongue?" Voldemort asked with a laugh which was obediently echoed by his followers.

_No, it's right here in my mouth, you idiot, but what the bloody buggering hell do you think I have to say to you?_ Hermione thought, the sharp stab of irritation she felt settling her mind back a little more firmly into the situation at hand. _Really, of all the asinine questions – as though you're not going to kill me no matter what._

"My lord."

If Hermione had been capable of starting, she would have done so. Why had he returned?

"What is it, Severus?" Voldemort demanded shortly.

Leaving your assigned task to come back and bestow unearned titles on your master was apparently a no-no. Hermione couldn't get her eyes to work well enough to refocus on the figures around her. She heard Severus speaking again.

"I'm afraid the girl has modified the potion. The traditional antidote will not work."

"Are you or are you not a Potions master?" the cold voice asked icily.

"There is no doubt that I can counter anything _she_ might have come up with," Severus said, disdain for the Mudblood evident, and Hermione mentally made a face at him, sticking out her tongue. Perhaps it was just as well she couldn't summon the energy or control to do that for real, as she had been trying for years to convince Severus that she _was not_ still a twelve year old. The Potions master continued: "If you wish the most expedient solution, however, she will have to inform me of the exact changes she made."

"She has proved resistant to persuasion," the Dark Lord repined on a sigh, as though discussing torture victims and their recalcitrance was a mild but normal irritation. "I had hoped to keep her alive until the Potter brat arrived, so he could watch her die, but it hardly seems worthwhile now."

"Perhaps she would respond better if the threat were not against _her_ person," Severus suggested mildly. "You know how Gryffindors are."

"An excellent notion, Severus," Voldemort sounded excited again. "Bring the child back."

"As you wish, my lord."

_What are you doing?_ Hermione demanded frantically. Appalled as she was, she would likely have blurted the question out if she had been capable of it. _Why is she still here? Did you forget how to Apparate? I can't let them hurt Calla to get to me, you daft berk!_

She was not given the opportunity to witness what she was sure was the height of Severus's stupidity, because while everyone else was concentrating on Severus and his brilliant new torture plan, Dolohov was regaining consciousness. And Dolohov, whether he had heard any of the new plan or not, had a plan of his own.

Hermione felt a strong sense of déjà vu as the crazed Death Eater came hurtling into her field of vision. Gathering every ounce of her diminishing will and magic, she non-verbally and wandlessly screamed the strongest _Protego_ she could. She didn't even have to see his lips move or hear his voice to know what spell the predictable bloody bastard was casting.

The flash of purple flame sizzling through her weakened shield and impacting with her body was the last thing she saw and felt, the irony of Voldemort's cry of anger lost to her as darkness overtook her, her last thought one of regret: _I really wanted Calla to be right_.

* * *

**Author's Note**: Excerpt taken affectionately from Tolkien's _The Hobbit_ (HarperCollins, 1995, pp 55-56). No offence intended to the goblins working at Gringotts. The chapter title is derived from Tolkien's "Out of the Frying-Pan into the Fire". I originally intended to fade-to-black before actual torture of any sort, but found that left a big, gaping void that was hugely awkward. 

As far as I can recall, there is nothing in canon to say that the Draught of Living Death _doesn't_ have an antidote. Since it seems silly to me that all such a fancily-titled potion would do is put someone into a deep but easily-aborted sleep, I extrapolated the idea of the necessary antidote.

_Next up_: Harry reacts to his daughter and Hermione's disappearance.

* * *


	6. The Saviour of the Wizarding World

**Author's Note**: This story is neither _HBP_ nor _DH_ compliant. _Feedback is always appreciated; reviews feed my muse and make me smile._

**Anti-Litigation Charm**: It all belongs to JKR; I play for non-profit amusement.

* * *

_**It All Started when the Girl Fell from the Sky**_

by Silver Birch

_Chapter Six: The Saviour of the Wizarding World_

Harry Potter was happy. He was quite possibly happier than he could ever remember being in his whole life. The closest he had come before, probably, were fleeting moments: when he had first seen his parents in the Mirror of Erised, or when Sirius had first broached the subject of their living together. Flying came close, maybe, but he couldn't actually fly all the time. Now that his daughter was accessible, now that Draco was doing a quite exemplary imitation of an understanding, likable sort of bloke, Harry felt at all times a bit like he did when he was on his broomstick, soaring free through the air. Actually, the only irritation he was experiencing currently was the number of times he overheard the supposition as to _why_ he was so happy all of a sudden. And ever since he had caught Draco dissolved into helpless laughter when the rumour reached him—that had been Hermione's doing—Harry couldn't bring himself to be all that annoyed. The Slytherin had apparently found it hilarious that he was getting credit, however unacknowledged, for rocking someone's world when he hadn't actually done it yet.

Harry knew that, theoretically, this happiness was of a fixed duration as well; Calla didn't belong in this time. However, no inroads had been made into discovering how she had journeyed back in time once it had been established that neither a Time-Turner nor any other device of which they or the little girl were aware had been used. There were apparently a few archaic time rituals of which even Dumbledore only had nominal knowledge, but, again, Calla had made it quite clear that she didn't recollect taking part in any odd rites or ceremonies.

Everyone else seemed to be waiting for the situation to sort itself out, but Harry was rather hoping he'd just get to keep her. It made his brain hurt a little if he projected too far into the future, but otherwise he couldn't see what the harm was. As far as Madam Pomfrey had been able to assess and they had been able to see, Calla was perfectly normal and healthy here in the past. It stood to reason, therefore, that she would just keep growing up from today. Once they were done at Hogwarts, they could stop with the whole "hide Calla in the dungeons" nonsense. Eventually, Harry and Draco would have baby Calla, and, sure, it would be a little awkward while there was baby Calla and older Calla, but they could separate them, or disguise the older one, surely? And then at some point the little girl would disappear into the past, and they'd be left with just one again. No problem, right?

From the way he caught Hermione looking at him occasionally, he was pretty sure that she'd caught on to what he was thinking. He didn't mind the pity so much, as she'd thus far controlled herself enough not to say anything (which, considering this was Hermione they were talking about, was a rather large achievement). He was allowed to have his dreams, wasn't he? For the first time in a long time, he wasn't just anxious to have the war with Voldemort over so that the bloody mess was done, one way or the other; he was anxious to have it over so that he could move on to better and brighter things. He had found a vocation, and it seemed as though the person he wanted to share his life with might actually consent to do so at some point, which would eventually result in the blonde miracle he cared so much about. Hermione had caught him the one time he'd tried to subtly ask Calla what year she was from in the hope that he could get an estimate on just how long he'd have to wait for this achievement of his happiness. He hadn't had the courage to try again since then; he might be a Gryffindor, but, as they had discovered back in first year, Hermione could be bloody scary.

Harry was looking forward to that evening, as Hermione had dutifully promised to sneak him under his Invisibility Cloak to her HeBaHeG meeting. (She hated it when he called it that, even in his head, but he thought "Head Boy and Head Girl" was simply too long and cumbersome to be used every time the meeting was discussed.) Draco had agreed to bring Calla, passing it off as more time when he could sucker the Head Girl into caring for the child (while also fobbing as many of his own duties off on her as possible, of course, because that's what clever Slytherins did to unsuspecting and daft Gryffindors). Harry sometimes wondered how she could stand all the Slytherin machinations that were part of dealing with the Head Boy, but supposed he wasn't one to talk, as he was angling to join himself to Draco permanently.

Harry and Ron were in the library, because Hermione had threatened (only semi-seriously, he hoped) to start allocating his time with his daughter based on his scholastic achievement. He had hastened to assure her, in case she really _was_ serious, that he would have his Charms essay written before she came to retrieve him that evening. So far, his attempt was not going so well, and he was spending more time thinking of elaborate excuses as to why he had failed than actually writing.

"Do wizards develop carpal tunnel syndrome?" Harry asked hopefully.

"What?" Ron asked, looking up from his parchment in bewilderment. "Carple what?"

Harry frowned. "It's a Muggle thing, I guess. Don't suppose Hermione'd buy it, anyway."

"Mate," Ron said, shaking his head pityingly, "if you'd just shut up and write the bloody essay, you wouldn't have such a problem."

It was a sad day when Ronald Weasley was giving Harry sensible academic advice. It also looked as though he'd written considerably more than Harry had. The dark-haired Gryffindor sighed.

"Yeah, yeah, writing, okay," he grumbled, going back to staring at his mostly-blank parchment.

Several minutes passed with the sound of only one quill industriously scratching over parchment.

"You know," Ron said casually, as he flipped through a book in front of him before spotting the reference he needed and bending back to his work, "I'm sure Calla would be pleased to know that you were finished."

Hmm. That was true. Calla was always happy when her dad got his work out of the way and was able to play with her with a completely clear conscience.

Harry had written almost ten inches before he realized what Ron had done. His outraged "Hey!" was met with only a snicker. His friends knew him too well; he should be less easy to manipulate than that, Harry reflected sadly. Still, now he _would_ feel better if the essay was out of the way.

He was actually approaching the length requirement when the doors to the library slammed open, garnering the attention of everyone in the vicinity. A ghostly-white, panic-stricken Draco stormed in, robes flapping wildly, and made a beeline for Harry.

The Gryffindor's heart dropped like a rock, lodging painfully in the vicinity of his toes. He was thinking frantically, but simply couldn't come up with an innocuous reason why Draco was publicly seeking him out, heedless of who might witness the encounter.

Draco reached them.

"They're gone," he gasped, chest heaving as though he had been running.

"What?" Harry demanded. "Who?"

"Hermione and Calla," the Slytherin said, confirming Harry's worst fears.

"What do you mean, 'gone'?" Ron queried when Harry seemed to have lost his voice.

"Gone as in 'not here', Weasel," Draco snapped. "What the hell do you think I mean?"

"Lose the attitude, ferret. _How_ did they go?" Ron clarified crisply.

"Portkey."

Harry was finding it more difficult to breathe than he thought was normal. Fuck, he hated Portkeys.

"Dumbledore should be in his office."

Harry allowed Ron to prod him into motion, not noticing when his best friend Summoned all of the belongings that he hadn't realized he was simply leaving in the library. All his focus was inward. His daughter was supposed to be safe! Hogwarts was supposed to be the safest place in all of Britain, and his little girl had been easily snatched from its confines! How had this happened?

Of course, he thought furiously, Voldemort had managed to get to the Philosopher's Stone, and it had been well protected and hidden. It had been Harry who had kept the Stone safe…. Someone should have bloody told him it was going to wind up exclusively his job to keep Calla safe, and then he wouldn't have allowed them to put her somewhere daft like the dungeons.

The trip to Dumbeldore's office was completed in tense silence. Harry was trying not to hyperventilate, Ron was grim and determined, and Draco was still doing his ghost imitation. It was a small mercy that the headmaster dropped his batty old man routine and asked straightforwardly what was wrong without the customary offer of lemon drops or tea.

Ron had apparently become their spokesperson.

"Hermione and Calla were Portkeyed out of the castle a short time ago. Malfoy came to tell us."

The old man's expression grew even more serious. A silvery phoenix, Dumbledore's Patronus, appeared at his side and then disappeared through the nearest wall.

"I've sent for Minerva. Once she arrives, we will determine exactly what has occurred and what we may do to remedy the situation."

"How about we do something useful like get Professor Snape up here!" Harry exclaimed with more force than was necessary for the size of the room, but he could care less.

"Severus was Summoned earlier this evening," Dumbledore said soberly.

"Our only spy is with Voldemort right now and you expect us to sit here and come up with a way to 'remedy the situation'?" Harry demanded incredulously.

"We have not yet even determined that it was Voldemort who took them," Dumbledore pointed out mildly.

The look Harry shot him was scathing. "No, I'm sure they decided to take a sudden vacation and just forgot to mention it!"

"Harry," Ron began cautiously.

"Bugger off, Ron!" Harry snapped. "You know full well that if, by some miracle, it wasn't Voldemort, a person who Portkeys someone away without their consent is still up to no bloody good! And since we're dealing with my life, who the fuck else do you think it would be?" Harry was yelling by the end of this question.

Ron, red-faced but stoically silent, retired to one of the chairs in front of Dumbledore's desk. After a moment's hesitation, Draco took the seat opposite. Harry remained standing, feeling far too wild to be sitting. And then he clapped a hand to his forehead, the familiar angry pain of his scar bringing a surprising level of clarity with it.

"As I said," he repeated coolly and much more collectedly, "we're dealing with my life. He's very happy."

Draco somehow grew even paler, and the angry wash of colour left Ron's cheeks. No one attempted to suggest that the two events were unrelated.

Harry's Head of House arrived. When she took in the presence of the three angry young men in the room, her lips pursed in evident displeasure.

"Good Lord, what have the three of you done to one another now?" she demanded.

"I'm afraid the situation is much worse than that, Minerva," Dumbledore responded gravely. "Miss Granger and Calla have been removed from the school by Portkey. Mr. Malfoy witnessed the removal."

Draco explained what little he'd seen. McGonagall frowned.

"Who could possibly have predicted that Miss Granger would be holding Miss Malfoy when the child activated the Portkey?" she demanded.

They exchanged glances. Draco spoke.

"I believe you're labouring under a misapprehension, Professor. The Portkey was almost certainly for Calla, and Hermione's going along was an accident."

"What would Voldemort want with your … sister," she finally settled on what she evidently deemed a safe and polite familial connection, "Mr. Malfoy?"

As one, the three students looked at Dumbledore, who gave a brief outline of actual events to his deputy. She looked utterly horrified.

"You've been housing _Harry Potter_'s child in the _Slytherin_ dungeons? And you never thought to mention it to me?"

Harry had never heard the woman take that tone with the headmaster and was rather impressed.

"She's my daughter, too!" Draco snapped.

"A fact which you have seemed less than enamoured of," Harry pointed out, the deep fury that was swirling in him suddenly finding an outlet.

Draco turned on him, expression darkening to dangerous as he asked in a low voice, "Are you accusing me of sending my daughter to the Dark Lord?"

"Or to a family reunion," Harry suggested nastily, meeting the blond head on. "She'll be meeting up with your mother … and your father … and your uncles … and your aunt, now won't she?"

"Fuck you, Potter," Draco snarled.

"I know you're going to have to eventually, but now doesn't really seem the time, does it?" Harry sneered.

The Slytherin had to take what looked like a deep, calming breath before he was able to state, through gritted teeth: "_I'm_ not at that meeting, Potter."

"Because Voldemort hasn't issued an invitation yet!" Harry yelled.

Draco erupted from his seat, and Harry thought he was going to get the fight he was itching for, but the headmaster chose that moment to intercede.

"Sit down!"

Harry found himself sitting. He hated the fact that the man could do that.

"Let's concentrate a little less on the accusations and a little more on the facts, shall we?" the headmaster suggested almost cheerfully. "Mr. Malfoy, is there anything else you can tell us?"

Draco shrugged. "Hermione was reading aloud. Calla seemed quite engrossed in the material." His head tilted as he considered. "She might have been fidgeting a little, but I thought that was nervousness from the events in the story. A surprising moment made her jump, and I guess that's when the Portkey touched her hand. This is what it was in." He handed over a thick, off white envelope, ignoring, as everyone else did, Harry's muttered "How convenient".

Dumbledore examined the envelope carefully, and Harry could see that it was unaddressed and looked completely blank. The headmaster frowned slightly. "There's a light Compulsion Charm on it. You or I would barely feel it, but it's just strong enough to make it irresistible to a child."

"But where did the letter come from?" Harry demanded, shooting Draco another suspicious glance. "Isn't all post screened? And if there were a charm on it, how could she have resisted since breakfast? I don't remember her getting any letters."

Draco shook his head, confirming this fact. "She didn't. And no, before you ask, a big ruddy owl didn't swoop in and drop it off while Hermione and I sat about doing nothing to stop it. I don't _know_ how the letter got there."

Panic was beginning to overwhelm Harry again. Since the moment when Draco had come bursting into the library, everything had gone to hell. They would have a little girl in the future, but there was no saying that she couldn't die in the past. The very idea that Calla could die years before she was born was horribly wrong, but Harry couldn't come up with any piece of logic that negated the possibility.

At that moment, Harry's pocket suddenly warmed. His hand had nearly touched his trousers to investigate when it hit him: his DA coin. _Hermione_. His eyes flew to Ron's, and he knew that the redhead had felt the same thing. He pulled his hand away. Bugger. They had to get out of here without anyone becoming suspicious. He couldn't scarper in the middle of the conversation, or they'd know…. He forced his mind back to the discussion at hand.

"I'm sure one of your Slytherins could have slipped it to her," Harry pointed out, "since she was living in the bloody _dungeons_."

"And she was sitting in a _Gryffindor_'s lap when she disappeared," Draco snapped back.

"So it's somehow Hermione's fault that she can die with my daughter at Voldemort's hand, is that it?" Harry demanded, suddenly incensed.

Draco recoiled. "That's _not_ what I said."

"I will investigate other methods in which letters could be delivered within the school," Dumbledore declared, almost as though he had not heard their slinging of insults and accusations, "in the hopes that we can speedily determine who has helped perpetrate this attack."

Two heads swivelled in his direction, antagonism forgotten.

"That can't be all you're planning to do," Harry said, the first to speak, appalled despite his own burning clue.

"What would you have me do, Harry? Until we know where they have been taken, our options are rather limited," the headmaster pointed out regretfully but firmly.

"But—" he protested on principle.

"I will of course make contact with the Order members who might by chance hear something of use," Dumbledore added.

_Right. When the Death Eaters decide to wander about town randomly informing people where they've stashed Hermione and Calla_, Harry thought derisively.

"As soon as we have learnt anything of use, you will be the first to be informed, Mr. Potter," McGonagall said.

Draco opened his mouth, but apparently decided it wasn't worth it and closed it again without speaking.

Harry rose hastily from his chair, only partially having to affect anger. If there was one thing he hated, it was feeling useless. Knowing people might be dying and doing nothing to prevent it. "Well, until you _do_ have something useful to share, I'm leaving."

"And just where are you going?" McGonagall demanded. "Need we remind you that there is nowhere for you to hare off to at the moment and leaving the grounds would only put you at unnecessary risk?"

Harry rolled his eyes. _Honestly, I'm not completely daft_. "I would never leave the grounds if I didn't have a clue where to go, Professor," he said with perfect honestly. "I need to get out of this office for a bit, though. It's my daughter and my best friend out there, Professor."

The sympathy card worked like a charm. The witch softened visibly.

"See that you're not difficult to find, Mr. Potter."

Harry bolted for the door after a hurried nod.

"Don't worry, Professors, I'll stay with him," Harry heard Ron reassure them, and a moment later he was joined on the descending staircase.

They didn't speak until they'd ducked into the nearest loo, dumped their school bags carelessly to the ground, and put an Imperturbable on the door. Each pulled out his gold coin a bit breathlessly. Instead of the serial number, the coins now read _Portus Hermione and Calla_.

They looked at one another. Good of Hermione to make it idiot-proof for them.

"You know where this will go, Ron," Harry began cautiously.

The look Ron shot him was eloquent. "You're stark raving if you think I'll let you go alone."

Harry considered his best mate for a long moment, blinking back tears that he was _not_ crying. He thought briefly of the Slytherin up in the headmaster's office, and then pushed those thoughts firmly away. He nodded resolutely to Ron.

They clasped hands, each holding a coin as they pronounced in unison:

"_Portus Hermione and Calla_."

They landed in a heap in a corner of a large room amidst chaos (and Harry vowed anew that one day he'd learn to land upright; this would be easier to accomplish if he didn't avoid Portkeys like the plague whenever he could). Harry was surprised that the pain in his scar didn't increase terribly much. He wasn't sure if it was because he was still Occluding (and doing a better job of it than he had in past encounters), or because Voldemort didn't appear to have noticed him yet. There were Death Eaters everywhere, milling about a bit, noisy and agitated. Someone was screaming. Harry sought out the source of the noise and found a man who was writhing under Voldemort's wand … a man who was writhing a short distance from the crumpled form of a horribly-still Hermione. She was deathly pale, arms and legs akimbo, robes torn, and surrounded by a pool of blood. Harry's breath caught in his throat. _Oh, no. No, no, no_, he denied desperately. _I didn't come for this. I came to_ rescue _her, dammit!_ What had he been thinking? He should have taken out the bloody coin in the middle of the meeting – he would have been gone before anyone was the wiser.

Ron had staggered at his side, so Harry knew he'd caught sight of their best friend as well. Harry forced himself to look past the Gryffindor girl, because he hadn't seen any hint of his daughter yet. Where could she be? Hermione wouldn't have voluntarily let the little girl out of her sight…. He swallowed heavily. It didn't look as though Hermione had done anything voluntarily. He kept looking. Past the stupid snake-faced bastard, past Bellatrix at his side, past Death Eaters he vaguely recognized from one encounter or another. His questing eye stopped. There. Standing, stunned, in the doorway on the opposite side of the room was Professor Snape, holding a small burden in his arms. Her head lolled to one side, her arms and legs dangling limp and lifeless.

Harry's brain stalled, refusing to accept the visual input it was receiving. "No," he whimpered. _Not my baby. Anything but that. There's so much I have to tell her, so much I haven't had the chance to do with her. She has to get Sorted. Get her first detention for something completely daft. Ride a broom. Fall in love__…_ "No." His breath was coming faster and faster, his thoughts tumbling out of control. "No!" he screamed in agony, a negation from the depths of his soul.

Everyone's attention focussed sharply on him. Voldemort whirled round, finally aborting his torment, smiling cruelly when he caught sight of Harry. "Mr. Potter, what a delightful surprise. Time to join your little Mudblood, your godfather, and your parents."

Voldemort's wand was pointed straight at him, and Harry hadn't even taken his out. His heart was in agony. _Calla. Hermione. Sirius. My parents. Cedric. Order members. Wizards. Muggles whose names I don't even know. So many. Too many_.

He shook his head. "No."

Voldemort looked faintly nonplussed. "What?"

"You heard me," Harry gritted out, tears sliding down his cheeks, the rest of the world fading out in a buzz of white noise so that Harry could only see Voldemort, the wizard who had dogged his steps and tried to destroy his life since he was a baby. The emotions were raging unchecked through him: anger, incoherent pain, an agony of love. It was like a tidal wave, swelling out of control, humming through his veins like a live wire. "You have killed almost everyone I have ever loved, but you should _never_," he hissed out, "have touched my daughter."

An expression of surprise was the last one to cross the features of Tom Marvolo Riddle. As Harry lost all semblance of control of his emotions and his magic, power leapt in a blinding arc of pure white light from him to Voldemort. There was a clap like thunder at the moment of impact, the smell of burnt ozone in the air, and everyone in the vicinity was knocked to the ground as the room filled with smoke.

As the air slowly began to clear, Harry and Ron were the first to recover, perhaps because the blast of power had fanned out from Harry and therefore away from them. They stumbled across the room, arriving at Hermione's supine form at almost the same moment as Professor Snape, who had been the furthest away from Voldemort and clear on the other side of the room from Harry. The Potions master proffered Calla, whose unscathed state told Harry that the Potions master had apparently even stayed on his feet.

"Potter, take your daughter."

Harry just stared at him and the body in his arms. His pain was visceral, gnawing at his insides.

"Potter, so help me, if I find that Hermione is dead and it's because you are just standing there, they will never find your body," Professor Snape snarled.

Somehow, this got through. Harry was more shocked by the use of his best friend's first name than the threat of bodily harm.

He stepped hesitantly forward and accepted the little burden. He was unable to prevent the tears that welled up as he held his little girl in his arms, but as the weight really registered, his eyes flew to his professor's, startled.

"She's still warm."

Professor Snape was already kneeling by Hermione's side at this point, heedless of the blood seeping into his robes, but his gaze snapped up at this.

"Of course she's—" The impatient irritation cut off abruptly as an arrested look briefly crossed the man's face, which softened, ever so slightly. He looked back down at Hermione, but his voice, when he spoke, was almost gentle: "She's only sleeping, Potter. Draught of Living Death. She'll be fine."

Harry let out a big gasp of air, his world righting itself so quickly that it left him dizzy. Only sleeping. For once, someone who looked like she was "only sleeping" really was only unconscious. The little girl in his arms was only sleeping. But—

"What about Hermione?" Ron beat him to the question.

The kneeling man didn't answer, and Harry's momentary jubilation sputtered and died. It _hadn't_ looked as though Hermione were only sleeping. Most of the spells coming out of the Potions master's wand were ones that Harry had never even heard of, but they seemed to be doing whatever it was that the Slytherin wished, because a moment later he hoisted the slender young woman into his arms. Harry swallowed heavily at the blood that began to drip, unnaturally loud, onto the floor.

"We'll need to go the other room to Apparate, as I've reinforced the—"

"_Avada Kedavra_!"

Some of the Death Eaters were functional again, apparently. It was Bellatrix who'd cast the curse, and it was Pettigrew who stepped between her and Harry and discharged his Life Debt. Ron had her Stunned and tied up before she could attempt anything else.

"Through the door, Potter, and Apparate!" Professor Snape yelled.

Harry rushed for the door, no thoughts of heroics in his head when he was carrying his unconscious daughter, and Professor Snape was next with Hermione. Ron was bringing up the rear and blasting curses as they went.

All three made it through the door, and Professor Snape cast a strong locking charm. There was a look on Ron's face that Harry couldn't decipher.

"What?" Harry demanded.

"I could have sworn I saw—" Ron shook his head. "Never mind."

"Apparate, Potter!" Professor Snape snapped.

With a start, Harry obeyed, and found he'd done it before he seriously considered that he was about to perform Side-Along-Apparition for the first time (and with a passenger he would have been absolutely horrified to Splinch). Thankfully, he reappeared without incident at the gates to the grounds, and Professor Snape and Ron appeared with twin cracks a moment later.

Then it was a sprint to the hospital wing (or as close to a sprint as they could approximate with their burdens), Harry extremely grateful, for once, for the presence of the Potions master at his side; none of the highly inquisitive-looking students they passed dared brave the Slytherin's wrath to actually ask any of their questions.

Reaching the infirmary, the Head of Slytherin called for the mediwitch at a volume that Harry doubted he would dare even in an emergency, but the woman's expression of displeasure vanished when she actually caught sight of them. Professor Snape immediately started barking out a list of potions, and after a frozen moment, the woman jumped to obey.

Professor Snape ever so gently laid Hermione down on the nearest bed before casting more spells that Harry was fairly certain were complex diagnostics. Madam Pomfrey brought the potions, and with the precision of long practice, the Potions master began to administer them, at the same time issuing terse instructions to the mediwitch that Harry couldn't hear.

He was still just standing there, Calla in his arms, when the door to the infirmary burst open for the second time. The headmaster was doing his omniscient thing again, apparently. McGonagall and Draco were with him.

"Mr. Weasley."

Both Harry and Ron looked at Professor Snape in surprise (How could he do at least three things at once?), and, fortunately, Ron understood.

"Headmaster, I can take you and any Order members or Aurors you care to call back to Voldemort's body and a whole party of Death Eaters."

There was a stunned moment in which Harry realized that this was not, perhaps, the most diplomatic way to break the news, but then they were hurrying off to perform this duty, and Harry was left cradling Calla with Draco staring at them with his heart in his eyes.

"She's just sleeping," he hastened to assure the Slytherin. "Draught of Living Death. Professor Snape says she'll be fine."

Tension drained visibly out of the taut form, and Draco let out an audible breath of relief.

"And Hermione?" he asked.

As one, they turned to look at the still form, and caught the end of what Professor Snape was saying quietly to Madam Pomfrey.

"—invasion of her mind, Imperius, two … less than brief rounds of the Cruciatus, a Severing Hex …. That is all I saw or heard with certainty."

Harry's mind rebelled at the notion of Professor Snape resorting to the euphemism "less than brief". Knowing the Slytherin as he did, Harry also knew his wording meant that there were events that he had seen or heard but was less certain about. The definite list had seemed more than adequate to Harry. _I'm going to have to kill V— Oh, my God_.

"What is it?" Draco demanded.

"I killed Voldemort," Harry said, stunned.

"Let's lay Calla down over here, shall we?" Draco proposed very gently, and if Harry had been in his right mind, he would have been quite annoyed with the tone.

Still grappling with the news, Harry allowed himself to be led, not noticing the look of concern the blond was casting at him. Obediently, he placed Calla on the bed next to Hermione and sank into the chair next to the bed as he was bid.

He had killed Voldemort. Voldemort was dead. He had rescued Calla and Hermione, and the wizard who had captured them was no more. Because Harry had killed him. _He will have power the Dark Lord knows not … and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives…._ The Dark Lord was no more. Harry could live.

"Drink this."

Harry drank from the vial that was placed in his hand, grimacing half-heartedly at the awful taste. It was several moments before it occurred to him to wonder what he had just consumed. He looked up.

Draco's lips quirked slightly. "Helps with shock."

Shock? Harry didn't feel shocked. He felt a bit numb, that was all. And rather tired, actually. And his head throbbed a bit, but that was hardly new….

Blinking a bit woozily, he found that Draco was helping him stretch out in the bed next to Calla.

"What…?" he started to ask fuzzily.

"Just sleep a bit, Harry," Draco instructed.

"Hermione?" he protested.

"I'll wake you with any news. Close your eyes," the Slytherin admonished.

Sleep tugged ruthlessly at him, and Harry surrendered.

* * *

Harry Potter awoke feeling refreshed. If he'd had dreams, he didn't remember them; a strong sense of peace had invaded his soul, replacing huge swaths of the burden, tension, worry, anger, guilt, and pain that had previously resided there, and it was a remarkably liberating feeling. It became immediately clear to him that he was one of the only ones who was well rested. Professor Snape, Draco, Madam Pomfrey, Dumbledore, McGonagall … none of them looked as though they'd slept much in what proved to be the nearly twenty-four hours Harry had been unconscious and replenishing his severely-depleted magical reserves. 

Harry couldn't even find the heart to berate a blood-shot, bleary-eyed, dishevelled Draco for slipping him the Dreamless Sleep, especially when the blond gave him the précis of the events he had missed. The wizarding world had been stunned by the sudden and unexpected defeat, but had recovered quickly and was steadily gearing up to jubilant. Reporters had been camped outside of Hogwarts since the news had reached the Ministry and been promptly leaked. The _Prophet_ had played to death the fact that Voldemort had been killed just in time to reclaim Valentine's Day as a day of love and happiness with no shadow of darkness to mar it. Harry didn't actually mind the sentiment, but wished they would give it a rest; the fact that he'd killed Voldemort the day before Valentine's Day had been complete coincidence (and the fact that _that_ day had been Friday the thirteenth had no special significance either, thank you very much). He hadn't even had to give any interviews yet, and he was already utterly sick of the press. The Minister was ecstatic as well, because, for once, he had responded with alacrity to Dumbledore's news, and the Aurors who arrived with the Order, Ron, and the Headmaster had still found all the Death Eaters locked in their hideaway, along with the very clearly completely dead body of their Lord.

When the first of the Aurors arrived at Hogwarts, Professor Snape had spared a moment to direct them to Theodore Nott, who was apparently responsible for the Portkey that had transported Calla and Hermione to Voldemort. Draco was quite annoyed that Professor Snape had not informed Draco of this piece of information first, but Harry conceded reluctantly that keeping them all out of Azkaban was only sensible at this juncture. He was equally certain, however, that it was only the injured Hermione who needed the professor's attention that had prevented Nott from feeling his Head of House's wrath. Harry also had little doubt that the man really could have ensured that no body was ever found. Still, he didn't suppose that either Calla or Hermione would want any of them to start killing on their behalf. For the longest time he had bitterly regretted that youthful decision in the Shrieking Shack, but it looked as though time had proved him right after all.

Plus, since they had let Nott be taken away and questioned by Aurors, they had learnt that it was his house-elf who had silently and unobtrusively delivered the envelope to Calla. Harry was reluctantly impressed with the cleverness of this scheme, remembering how, even before he had been freed from the Malfoys, Dobby had been able to enter Hogwarts. Harry hoped that Dumbledore was remedying this situation and made a mental note to bring it up with him; between him, Draco, and Professor Snape, they could certainly make a persuasive argument.

Professor Snape and Draco had brewed through the night and into the new day, and they had plied Hermione with a whole host of specialty potions. Apparently all the injuries they needed to tend had treatments that were somewhat contraindicated, but there were only so many adjustments they could make, and they couldn't put off trying to heal the internal injuries from the _Diffindo_, the nerve damage from the _Cruciatus_, or the possible brain damage from the Legilimency attack and the Unforgivable. It would be another forty-eight hours before they knew whether she was likely to pull through … and whether she would be entirely coherent if she did.

Without hesitation, Harry hunkered down to wait, threatening the blond Slytherin with repayment of his earlier treatment of Harry unless he promised to go sleep for at least eight hours. Draco grumbled, but finally did as he was told. Since there really was nothing else to be done except wait, Harry eventually managed to chivvy even Madam Pomfrey into a few hours of sleep, promising her that he would of course be staying in the infirmary, and he would be happy to wake her at the slightest hint of trouble. Finally, there were only two people left at Hermione's bedside, and Harry didn't even attempt to make the same argument with the Potions master, who looked haggard, but immovable.

They sat in silence, both looking at the still form in the bed between them. Harry knew she was breathing, but it was so shallowly that it was hard to tell – he'd checked more than once until Madam Pomfrey had caught him at it and inquired with more sarcasm than he'd thought was necessary if he really thought that she was relying on his _expert_ opinion rather than having alarms to monitor such vital information. Hermione's torso, underneath the sheet that was pulled up to her chin to keep her warm, was swathed in bandages. Her left wrist and both ankles had been broken, although Madam Pomfrey had been able to heal these with a charm. There were still horrible lacerations on her arms and legs, especially around her wrists and ankles. These had only been topically-treated and bandaged, because Professor Snape and the mediwitch had agreed that there was no reason to risk putting more potions into her system currently for injuries that were not life-threatening. While he was aware that she'd been pumped full of Blood-Replenishing Potions, she was still so pale (and looked so small, tucked into the bed, motionless, hair a wild mane around her white face) that he had trouble convincing himself she wasn't in need of more. He couldn't get the image of her in that pool of blood out of his mind. He could still hear the drip, drip, drip of the dark liquid after Professor Snape had picked her up….

"Why hasn't she been transferred to St Mungo's?" Harry asked abruptly, trying to dispel the images in his mind.

"I am better able to treat her here," the Potions master responded shortly.

"But last time, after the Department of Mysteries, with only one of the injuries that she has now, she was transferred to St Mungo's and almost died."

"If you doubt my abilities, Potter, I'm sure—" the man sneered.

"Professor," Harry interrupted, absolutely earnest, "if you hadn't been there, she wouldn't be here now. I have complete faith in your abilities."

This stopped the man cold. After a very loud moment of silence, he said quietly, "When she was sent to St Mungo's, I was rather … perturbed that the lot of you had run off to the Department of Mysteries so foolishly."

Harry swallowed a scathing retort. Professor Snape had just voluntarily admitted a moment of his pettiness to Harry Potter. He'd made the wrong choice then, and he was striving to make the right one now.

"She hated it there," Harry said instead.

"I know."

The response was so soft that Harry almost didn't hear it. Hunh. Maybe Hermione wasn't the only one who'd gone a little odd after all those summer brewing sessions.

He looked to the bed on the other side of him, where his daughter continued to slumber. Since she was uninjured, she didn't seem in a bad way, and Harry knew it might seem ungrateful, but he couldn't help himself.

"I know you've been crazily busy with brewing for Hermione, but is there a reason that Calla is still sleeping?"

There was a long silence, making him wonder if he'd pissed the man off even more than he had predicted, but before he could backpedal, the Slytherin spoke.

"Hermione modified the potion so that it requires a special antidote. I have the vial that contained the dose, and I can therefore work out the proper counter-agent, but …" he stopped.

In a sudden flash of understanding, Harry felt any remaining rancour towards the Potions master dissolve. Rather than conceding the need for his skills, the Slytherin wanted to wait and ask Hermione. Harry found himself blinking back tears, determined not to get chewed out by the intensely private man. Giving himself a moment to compose himself and not come off sounding strangled, he chose his words with care.

"I think Hermione would like to see Calla awake when she regains consciousness."

The older man considered this for a moment.

"Perhaps you're right," he conceded, rising. "If anything goes amiss—"

"I really will call you at the slightest disturbance," Harry promised.

There was that little twitch of the lips that indicated amusement, and then, in a swirl of robes, the Potions master was gone.

Harry had been sitting there for perhaps three quarters of an hour when he felt a presence behind him and had to abort the spell that was half out of his mouth when he discovered that it was only Neville.

"Sorry, Harry," the boy apologized. "I thought you could use some company."

Harry was about to tell him that he'd rather be alone when it occurred to him why the brown-haired boy had snuck all the way down here. Harry was waiting at the bedside of a loved one who might or might not wake up from a torture session that included several bouts of the Cruciatus Curse.

"Pull up a chair," the green-eyed Gryffindor invited.

It was going to be a long two days.

* * *

**Author's Note**: Horcrux? What's a Horcrux? I started this fic before I knew they existed, and I've continued in _HBP_-less bliss. Prophecy lifted, obviously, from _OotP_. The carpal tunnel syndrome moment is courtesy of _Buffy_. (Her use of the excuse was equally unsuccessful.) 

I'm operating on the assumption that Portkeys can't be stopped (ie. They can't be prevented from working at Hogwarts), because I don't think _GoF_ would have happened otherwise (although I will concede that Dumbledore has some daft notions sometimes). That's why the post is screened.

And for anyone who's wondering, yes, it would have made more sense to _tell_ Dumbledore and the others about the coins, but Harry's feverish little brain wasn't admitting of any possibility of delay or investigation – he just felt he had to go now, and that meant with only Ron as his trusty companion. No surprises there, really.

_Next up_: Events resume after forty-eight hours have elapsed.

* * *


	7. Returned Part One

**Author's Note**: This story is neither _HBP_ nor _DH_ compliant. _Feedback is always appreciated; reviews feed my muse and make me smile._

**Anti-Litigation Charm**: It all belongs to JKR; I play for non-profit amusement.

* * *

_**It All Started when the Girl Fell from the Sky**_

by Silver Birch

_Chapter Seven: Returned (Part One)_

The first sensation of which Hermione became aware was that of pain. It pulsed through her whole body, burning like fire across her torso and seeming to take especial care to bounce around viciously in her skull, which felt abnormally attuned to the least sensation. A feeble whimper of protest escaped her, immediately causing her to wince at how much making the sound hurt, which hurt in turn. Her throat felt dry as a bone, scraped raw.

"Hermione?"

She felt certain that she knew the owner of the voice and was left with the distinct impression that it was important to respond to the urgently-spoken word. With supreme effort, she forced open eyes that felt as though they had been glued shut. Instantly, light pierced her skull, and she closed her lids again, making an incoherent noise of protest. The original pain had intensified exponentially, her skull throbbing mercilessly with each beat of her heart.

"I've dimmed the light. Can you open your eyes again?" The voice sounded somehow desperate and hopeful, the words soft-spoken but still hurting her ears.

A name pushed its way through the haze of pain that envelopped her. _Severus_. With this knowledge came a certainty that she was safe, and, armed with that reassuring belief, she surrendered to the pain and let the darkness overtake her once more.

The second time Hermione returned to consciousness, it was like swimming out of a deep well. Pain was still dancing up and down her spine, radiating out to encompass her whole body, but she felt a little more connected and functional than she had previously. There were voices arguing in hushed but intense tones within hearing distance. She tried to open her eyes, but the achievement seemed to be currently beyond her reach.

"It's been nearly sixty hours. You have to start thinking about what that means."

Ron, she identified, the redhead sounding as though this was not the first time he had made this argument.

"Ron, if I want to sit here for the next week, there's nothing you can do to stop me," Harry snarled.

Hermione smiled faintly, not able to execute the full-fledged grin she wished to display. Whatever had happened, the Boy Who Lived continued to do so.

The third voice to speak told her she was exactly where she was supposed to be. Harry, Ron, and Severus: all safe. A load was lifted from her mind. "You seem extremely anxious to consign Hermione to her death."

"I want her to get well as much as you do!" Ron shot back defensively. "_You_ were the one who said we'd know within forty-eight hours. You and Madam Pomfrey agreed. If she's not responded yet, you _know_ what that indicates."

"And where's the harm in waiting a little longer?" Harry was the one to make the belligerent demand.

Hermione realized that Harry and Severus had voluntarily banded together, even if it were just to present a united front against Ron. There was hope for them yet.

"What about Calla?" Ron demanded. "You're only making this harder on her."

Calla! Where was she? Was she alright? Hermione had just begun to panic in earnest when her abused brain registered the warmth radiating from her right-hand side. It took her several attempts to act upon the motor instructions she was conscientiously trying to send to her hand, but her quest was eventually successful, and she found silky hair resting against her shoulder.

Making her mouth work with equal difficulty, she managed a barely-audible, croaky "Soft."

The warmth shifted, a kiss pressing into the crook of Hermione's neck, sending little sparkles of pain through her.

"Aunt 'Mione!" Although the little voice was right at her ear, the child had either figured out on her own or been told to keep her voice down, so the volume was sufficiently diminished not to make her injured head pound any more than it already was. "You need anything?"

Hermione took an inventory of her immediate needs and uttered, "Thirsty."

The warmth squirmed right away from her, and there was a thump, presumably as Calla landed on the floor.

"What are you doing?"

It was Severus who asked, his voice surprisingly gentle.

"Aunt 'Mione is thirsty," the little girl answered.

"Allow me."

There was an edge of resignation to his voice, and Hermione realized that he didn't believe Calla. He would assist to assuage the little girl, not because he believed she knew what Hermione wanted.

Still, he was very gentle as he propped Hermione up against his chest and tilted her head back so that she was at the correct angle to swallow the water that he slowly tipped into her mouth. She felt as though the liquid was being absorbed directly into the parched tissue of her throat rather than reaching her stomach. She was amazed by how much more human this immediately made her feel. _Note to self: am extremely sensitive to dehydration_. The ability to swallow without causing additional pain to her thoroughly-abused body was certainly a step in the right direction, anyway.

Marshalling her vocal skills once again, she said, voice sounding marginally more normal this time, "Thanks, angel."

The body supporting hers went rigid.

"You're welcome, Aunt 'Mione." There was a trace of smugness in her voice, suggesting that she had not been completely oblivious to what the others had been thinking.

"Hermione?" Spoken in the voice of someone who was convinced that whatever he had just seen or heard was a delusion.

"Severus?" she returned.

For a fleeting moment, she could have sworn that the arms supporting her embraced her, but then he was pulling away from her, allowing her to be held up only by the headboard of the bed.

"Can you open your eyes for me? The lights are dimmed," he demanded.

As it happened, there was very little that Hermione wouldn't do for Severus. This seemed to give her the strength of will that she had lacked earlier, and she forced open her heavy eyelids. Severus was her first sight. He was peering at her anxiously, lines that she didn't remember etched into his face. His hair looked even worse than usual, and his whole appearance was dishevelled in a way that she had never seen before.

Another smile formed on her face, a bigger one this time, and Hermione did not mind the twinges of pain this caused.

"Hi," she said stupidly.

"Hello," he replied seriously.

It looked as though he was going to speak again, but he didn't get the chance.

"Hermione!" It was wrenched from Harry, who couldn't seem to contain himself any longer as he strode up to the bedside, skirting around Severus.

He looked as unkempt as the Slytherin, as did Ron, who joined Harry on the opposite side of the bed from Severus. The tension was nearly unbearable, and Hermione wanted to relieve it, but all she could think of was a potshot at Ron and his reaction to her unconsciousness; the look of him said that he wasn't up for such ribbing right now.

Instead, she repeated the useless "Hi" she'd used before. Oh, come on now, she goaded herself, she could do better than that, surely?

"Gave up on personal hygiene and sleep in my absence, did you?"

Full grins spread over the cheeks of her two best friends.

"Can't expect us to remember everything on our own," Ron said with a dismissive wave of his hand.

"Aunt 'Mione, I'm so glad you're alright!"

She had squirmed back onto the bed and took the opportunity to hug Hermione, who thought she'd about die, the pressure from the little girl exacerbating what seemed to be the very fragile state of quasi-functionality that the Gryffindor had achieved since waking. Not for the world, however, would Hermione let the little girl know how much that had just hurt.

"I was so worried when I woke up and you wouldn't." Her face fell. "If it wasn't for me, you wouldn't have got hurt."

"You mustn't think like that, angel," Hermione said sternly but gently, before adding, as though the idea had just occurred to her, "unless you made the Portkey that sent us to Voldemort?"

The little girl smiled and shook her head.

Hermione nodded. "There we are, then. This was no one's fault but Voldemort's, and we both survived just fine."

"And he isn't going to hurt anyone anymore," Harry put in.

At first, Hermione couldn't quite process this. Her eyes caught and drowned in his brilliant green depths.

"No more Voldemort?" she questioned.

"No more Voldemort," he confirmed solemnly.

A wave of faintness overwhelmed her, leaving her gasping back on her pillow. After everything they had been through, the Dark Lord was dead, killed while she was in his clutches, but, anticlimax of anticlimaxes for her, while she was unconscious. Still, she didn't suppose that was really a detail to quibble over, since the defeat had evidently occurred before the psycho succeeded in killing _her_.

"There are potions that I need to administer," Severus said. There was a general protest, but he overrode it: "Hermione needs her rest. You may come and visit her again tomorrow. I will not endanger her recovery because of your foolishness."

Hermione had to wonder what had happened while she was unconscious. Severus had just referred to her by her first name in front of Harry, Ron, and Calla. And while they did continue to protest, it was in a mild fashion, and all three allowed themselves to be prodded out of her presence with a complete absence of insults and imprecations.

"You must say something if they injure you." She looked up at him, startled, and he continued: "It will be difficult for them to avoid if they never realize that you're in additional pain."

"I might have spoken to Ron or Harry. The last thing Calla needed to hear just then was that she was hurting me. My physical wounds will heal. At least," she smiled at him, "I trust they will?"

He gazed at her sourly. "So long as you don't go getting yourself reinjured."

"Point taken," she agreed. "I will do my very best to follow doctor's orders. Or Potions master's, as the case may be."

_Or mediwitch's_, she added silently as the matron bustled over. _Guess that phrase doesn't work so well in the wizarding world_.

"How are you feeling, my dear?" Madam Pomfrey asked solicitously.

"Like I was recently tortured and didn't expect to wake up," Hermione answered without thought.

"Less melodrama and more empirical evidence," Severus demanded.

"Severus!" Madam Pomfrey protested, sounding faintly scandalized.

Was it melodrama when it was true? Hermione was feeling too tired to argue the case properly, so she switched to a factual recitation of the aches and pains in her body.

"What hurts the most?" Severus pursued once she had finished.

She frowned. "Is it a contest? It all hurts."

"Did you lose the ability to answer my questions?" the Potions master asked acerbically.

Hermione considered this and then answered with a hint of the surprise that she felt at the realization: "Yes. Round about the first Legilimency attack, I decided to speak my mind even," she smiled faintly, "if it killed me. I hate to break it to you, but you simply aren't as scary as Voldemort."

"And you don't think you should revise this determination now that you are _not_ about to die?" he queried.

"Perhaps," she conceded. "But you've caught me as I've just returned to consciousness."

"Then allow me to recommend that you put it at the top of your agenda."

"As you wish. And to answer your question, before you pester me with it again," she nearly managed to successfully roll her eyes, because she'd caught him as he'd opened his mouth, "it's a toss-up between my head, which is about to explode, and my torso, which once again feels as though it's been ripped apart by something with sharp, jagged claws."

Madam Pomfrey and Severus performed several scans, consulted in low voices, and soon came up with a whole battery of evil-tasting potions that she needed to drink straightaway. One of these must have been Dreamless Sleep, because the world faded out shortly thereafter.

* * *

"_Crucio_." 

Pain tore through Hermione, mixing with the cold, cruel laugh that hurt her ears.

"Tell me about the child and this will all stop."

She couldn't have spoken even if she had wished to; agony locked her jaw.

"I never tire of this curse, and I _will_ have answers." A hissed promise.

It was becoming difficult even to hear what the madman was saying. Hermione knew with absolutely certainty that he wasn't going to relent with the curse. It was going to go on and on until there was nothing whatsoever left of her mind.

She screamed, the agonized sound a small echo of the torture she felt.

"Hermione!"

The Gryffindor woke with a start, gazing around wildly until she realized that she was in the darkened hospital wing, and it was Severus who had woken her from her nightmare.

"Thank you." She'd succeeded at a fairly even tone, and had her voice not sounded as though she'd just screamed herself raw, she would have achieved the casual effect she was going for.

Severus, fortunately, chose to be polite and stick to the facts. "The Dreamless Sleep has worn off. I would prefer not to give you another dose so soon."

"Sit with me?" she requested. "Then I'll know I'm safe."

She couldn't quite interpret his expression. He looked … disbelieving?

"Are you going to make me beg?" she asked, voice low and full of emotion, because she _would_ beg if he asked it.

Abruptly, Severus sat, although there was still that trace of doubt painting his features. She closed her eyes again, but found that wasn't good enough. It wasn't as though she expected him to duck out the second she wasn't looking, but with her eyes shut she didn't _know_ he was there. Opening her eyes once more, she reached out and found his hand. He said nothing as she grasped it and pulled it back onto the bed. The last image she saw before she surrendered to sleep was his increasingly puzzled expression as he stared down at their twined hands lying on the coverlet.

The next couple of days passed in a monotony of potions and spells designed to make Hermione well, supplemented with an absurd number of visitors, many jockeying to find out what had really happened at the Final Battle, as they insisted upon calling it. All these hopefuls refused to believe that she had been non compos mentis when all the action occurred; since they had already been turned away by Harry, who had essentially told them to mind their own business (and since none of them wanted to piss off the brand new Saviour of the Wizarding World), they were quite persistent with her. When Madam Pomfrey caught her threatening to curse a gaggle of fifth-year Hufflepuffs who'd waylaid her early one morning (her wand having been returned by Remus, whose sharp eyes had found it in the debris), she got a little short with the Gryffindor girl.

"There is no need to resort to violence, Miss Granger, as I would think you would appreciate."

Hermione scowled. "What I don't appreciate, Madam, are asinine questions."

"You've been saying how bored you are; visitors should help relieve that," the nurse pointed out.

"Visitors that I actually _know_ might help," Hermione conceded, "but gawkers I can do very well without." She continued hopefully, "I'm feeling ever so much better."

Madam Pomfrey stared down her nose at Hermione, clearly not believing a word of it. "You can't even walk yet."

"I'm sure I can," Hermione assured her. "Really, I just—"

"Fine. You walk to the doors unassisted and under your own power, and you may return to your own chambers," the nurse proposed with pursed lips.

Hermione wasted no time in taking her up on her offer. Flipping back the bedcovers, she eased her legs over the side of the bed and allowed her feet a few minutes to get used to the feel of the floor again. Gingerly, she gave them some of her body's weight, and then a little more, until she was finally standing, weaving shakily, beside her bed. There. Upright.

The horribly unsettled feeling inside her made it seem as though all her internal organs were forced too abruptly to acclimate to gravity acting on them in the vertical rather than the horizontal, but she took a step forward anyway. All her limbs felt shaky, as though the Cruciatus had been cast quite recently, and the wound across her abdomen meant she was breathing fire with every step as the healing gash tightened and stretched painfully.

Ten steps away from her bed, all she wanted to do was lie back down and never move again, but that would mean conceding defeat. She'd said she could do it, after all, and she wasn't about to allow the injuries inflicted by Voldemort and the Death Eater prevent her from achieving her goal.

Her movements became more and more of an awkward and pained shuffle across the floor, but she didn't permit herself to stop. It had at first seemed as though her progress was non-existent, but slowly the doors loomed larger, until finally she was standing on the threshold.

"Really, Poppy," she had been so set on her goal, she had not even noticed him tucked into the shadows by the door, arms crossed, watching her with dark eyes, "you should know better than to issue such a challenge to a _Gryffindor_."

"I hadn't thought—" Poppy began.

"I'll just see that she achieves her room without killing herself, shall I?" he said sardonically, pushing away from the wall with feline grace.

"I didn't—" It was clear Poppy hadn't meant for Hermione to leave, but the words had been said, and she reluctantly stood by them. "Yes, thank you, Severus."

Hermione tried to smile at the mediwitch, though it came out as a pained grimace, and by sheer force of will manouevred herself out the door and into the hallway. Severus followed.

"Idiot girl!" he snapped, as soon as Madam Pomfrey was out of sight. "Are you trying to get yourself killed?"

"You know, I think I've already filled my quota of death wishes for the month," Hermione managed, although the fact that she had to gasp it out between laboured breaths rather ruined the offhand effect.

He was still muttering about idiotic Gryffindors, suicidal heroics, and insufferable know-it-alls when he surprised her by suddenly sweeping her up into his arms and beginning to stride down the corridor as though this were the most natural action in the world. She let out a big breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding; there had been no way that she was going to make it to her room on her own two feet. She'd thought that if she were lucky, given the mood he seemed to be in, he'd Body-Bind her and drag her there. Afraid to ask questions, in case he came to his senses and dumped her on the floor, she merely wrapped her arms around his neck and held on.

Her cheek was resting against his black-clad chest; he smelled of potions, and she breathed deeply, instantly soothed. She didn't suppose he'd consent to carrying her around like this all the time, but she couldn't shake the feeling that all would be right with the world if she could only stay here like this. He would probably think her touched in the head if she said so.

They arrived outside her rooms, and she spoke the password as she felt his arms shift, as though he had intended to put her on her feet here and leave her to enter on her own.

"Tempestas."

The door swung open, and Severus carried her inside. _Carrying me over the threshold_, her mind was quick to point out, _just as though—_ but she squashed the thought before it could be completed.

They passed through the sitting room as she directed him to the door opposite that led to her bedroom. A moment later, he had her settled on her cherry four-poster. It required conscious effort on her part to keep from clinging to him when he released her.

His gaze travelled around the room. Opposite the bed was the fireplace, a fire crackling merrily within, showing that the house-elves, at least, had been on the ball and unsurprised by her sudden bid for increased freedom. The hearth was flanked by bookcases stuffed with books, mirroring the arrangement of shelves on the wall behind her desk. Light from the room's one large window slanted down upon the myriad articles burying the desk's surface: current books, scrolls of parchment, quills, ink, and sundry other stationary supplies. There was a tall wardrobe on the right side of her bed, with a bedside cabinet squashed in next to it. On the other side of the bed was the door leading to her private bath, and the fifth and sixth bookshelves bracketed the door they had come through. Several rag rugs covered the cold stone floor, done in deep blues and purples to match the curtains surrounding her bed and the fluffy indigo quilt which her grandmother had made for her, ever so pleased that it could accompany Hermione to school. Hermione had always brought and used it, never having the heart to inform the woman that blankets were provided by the school (although, really, hers was much nicer than anything Hogwarts had ever provided).

"Ah," he pronounced. "I always suspected you were secretly a Ravenclaw."

"I refuse to let something as silly as house affiliation determine my colour preferences."

"Or impact your obsession with books?" he asked pointedly.

"Or that, either," she agreed blandly. Amongst all the other happiness at being named Head Girl, she had been overjoyed at the prospect of having her own room and thus being able to bring many more books than in previous years (not to mention the fact that she could now devote a whole bookshelf's-worth of space to library books). She'd become quite adept at shrinking her possessions in order to pack them, and this year that skill had been abundantly necessary. "Besides, if I'd been a Ravenclaw, you might have had to concede my skill in the classroom, and we couldn't have that, now could we?"

"Hmm…" His response was noncommittal. She hadn't really expected him to admit his prejudice outright. "I will have to retrieve your potions. Please see that you inform the _Dream Team_ of your move so that mass hysteria is averted."

"I'll hobble off to the Owlery first thing," she promised facetiously.

He regarded her dourly, before saying in a put-upon voice, "Oh, very well; if I see them, I will inform them myself."

She hid a smile, wondering why he couldn't just have offered to inform her friends straight off, as he had obviously intended to do. Silly man. "Thank you, Severus."

She heard him exit, still grumbling, and allowed the smile to spread across her face.

* * *

Hermione's return to her own quarters may have barred the masses from her, but it signalled to others that she was well enough to answer questions. Propped up on pillows in her own bed, she met with friends, Order members, and Ministry officials to explain (with varying degrees of honesty and detail) just what had transpired when she and Calla were forcibly transported from the school. 

Harry and Ron were not the only ones who thought that she could have been a little more forthcoming about the DA coins and Calla's necklace. As Hermione had explained to everyone, she had thought the information was safest if she was the only one aware of it. The coins, as Harry and Ron had proved, were self-explanatory (although she had taken care to point out quite forcefully to the two abashed boys that had she thought they wouldn't even have the sense to Disillusion themselves before Portkeying, she would have made the instructions on the coin longer). To anyone who argued that it would have been safer for Harry _not_ to have such a coin, she had shaken her head pityingly and inquired if they knew Harry at all; he always found a way to do the right thing and rescue his friends. Her intervention minimized the risks of his haring off and putting himself in more danger by searching erroneous locations.

Truth be told, however, she had sooner imagined herself and Ron having to go after Harry one day than the other way round, but, for the sake of thoroughness, she had made each of their coins capable of not only sending the message but also receiving it. The objects she had given to the others Harry cared about, by contrast, were able to send the message only. This news had prompted several moments of Weasleys, friends, and Order members producing the coins, bracelets, rings, or necklaces with which she had gifted them and exclaiming loudly over them and their suddenly-discovered purpose. Dumbledore had been particularly impressed that she had managed to charm the coins so that they sent out the message when Summoned but then became passive so that Voldemort wouldn't detect them as potentially dangerous objects – it was the receiving coin which changed its nature and became a Portkey.

All those at Hogwarts who knew Calla's real identity had seemed embarrassed not to have thought of further protections for her, and so Hermione had played up her own compulsive nature; like all those Harry cared for (and perhaps a person who was just for Hermione), the Gryffindor girl had ensured that Harry's daughter could be tracked. Given Calla's unique situation, Hermione had added an additional feature. If Calla couldn't access her Portkey and felt endangered or worried that she was being asked information she knew she should not divulge, she was to drink the potion Hermione had provided in the little vial that was much more than simply a decorative part of her necklace. The potion would put her into a deep sleep that was almost guaranteed to last until Hermione, Severus, or Draco woke her, as the mostly likely malefactors did not have access to other Potions masters who could crack Hermione's alterations.

This feature had spectacularly exceeded Hermione's expectations, since she had really imagined it in the context of the Slytherins Calla was living with getting a little too nosy (and since Draco was so good at Potions, it would be easy to pass the Draught of Living Death off as him keeping his family's secrets to himself). Landing in Voldemort's lap had been the worst case scenario that she hadn't considered terribly seriously – what would he really want with a little girl, after all? This had been without taking into account his complete paranoia; a small child appearing mysteriously under the protection of Albus Dumbledore was a puzzle that had to be solved. Hermione would remain forever grateful, despite the horrors she had experienced, that Calla had been sitting in her lap when the Portkey activated; the Gryffindor had been able to take the brunt of the Dark Lord's ire; a small unconscious child would have made too easy a target if he lost his temper.

Severus could be heard muttering that she had been acting a complete Slytherin, and she didn't think that Ron and Harry disagreed. She had agreed with the Sorting Hat for years about the division of the school into houses causing problems, so she only smiled. A Gryffindor, accused of planning with a Ravenclaw's thoroughness and executing with a Slytherin's secrecy, who protected a child with a Hufflepuff's loyalty – it sounded about right to her.

Hermione had also had several holes in her own knowledge filled, learning all the details about Nott's house-elf and Harry and Ron's Gryffindor rescue. She had also learnt that at the death of her master, the lurking Nagini had turned on the Death Eaters. Four of them had been killed before the Aurors arrived: Bellatrix Lestrange and Antonin Dolohov, both unconscious, had apparently made easy targets, and Rodolphus had fallen avenging his wife. Rabastan Lestrange had managed to kill the great snake, but her last act had been a final lethal bite.

Hermione wasn't entirely certain how she felt about these deaths. Her last image of the Death Eaters was of Bellatrix's manic glee as Hermione was tortured and Dolohov's inhuman face as he attacked her. There had been too many casualties in recent years for her to feel particularly vindicated, but she also couldn't prevent the distinct feeling of relief that Dolohov wasn't sitting in a wizarding prison, perhaps about to break out yet again and come after her. Harry, she imagined, felt the same way about Bellatrix and her family. Hermione would have to be forever grateful to Voldemort, she supposed, for gathering together so many of his Death Eaters to run amok on Friday the thirteenth.

Severus continued to brew and administer the potions necessary for her return to health, and Madam Pomfrey made "house calls" each day, shaking her head at Hermione's obstinacy. Hermione suspected, however, that the woman actually understood her desire for privacy and her own bed; Hermione did not recall her time at St Mungo's and the Hogwarts infirmary terribly fondly (especially as, between her botched Polyjuice and her Petrification, she had spent more than her fair share of time in the latter medical facility during her second year).

Nightmares continued to plague her, the only nights she did not suffer them coinciding with a faint lingering smell of herbs and potion ingredients in the morning. Severus made no allusion to these nightly interventions, so she had thus far been grateful in silence. She knew that he tended to perform his good deeds unacknowledged, but wondered a little at his continued reticence now. Voldemort was dead, after all, the need for absolute secrecy over. It would obviously be unwise to inform all and sundry that he was spending many nights in the Head Girl's rooms, as that could be completely misinterpreted, but why keep the knowledge from her? Surely he must know that she was deeply grateful and that she would never betray him?

Calla's favourite location continued to be at Hermione's side, as though assuring herself that the Gryffindor was really safe and whole. Hermione consented to watch the child when classes resumed after the week's celebratory holiday that Dumbledore had granted everyone. Harry, Draco, and Ron now came to visit when they had free time and then took Calla off with them at night and when Hermione was being examined by Severus or Madam Pomfrey. The boys had also begun bringing her her homework, incredulous, as usual, that she was not using her injuries to get out of the work. She still tired more easily than usual, however, and the slow-to-heal nerve damage from the Cruciatus made her hands shake, so her progress was much slower than normal.

It wasn't long, in fact, before she was sick of being in bed, sick of her room, sick of stupid questions, and sick of sickly solitude. It was evening and Draco, Ron, and Harry were off entertaining Calla somehow or other; they hadn't said what they were doing, just taken her before dinner, leaving Hermione alone. It was at times like these that she missed Crookshanks terribly; the half-Kneazle had taken a curse meant for Hermione in Hogsmeade during her sixth year, and Hermione had not had the heart to replace him, although she had been touched by Ron's offer to go find the ugliest, orangiest, smartest cat he could for her. She had known, however, that it hadn't been time, still wasn't time; Crooks had been unique, and now he was gone, and Hermione was alone.

Severus came to administer a round of potions that evening in the midst of one of her strongest bouts of this moping, and when he tried to duck out immediately afterwards, unwilling, even, to stay for a cup of tea, she snapped.

"If you would rather Madam Pomfrey have sole contact with me, go ahead and tell her to administer my potions."

This brought him, already halfway to the door, around to face her quite quickly.

"What?"

"Or I daresay I could take them on my own, and you need only give Madam Pomfrey replacements from time to time," she offered, unable to keep all the bitterness from her voice.

He faced her stiffly, face blank and eyes shuttered. "If you do not wish me to—"

"Oh, come off it!" she interrupted angrily. "When have I given the least indication that _I_ don't want _you_ here? It's you who has been practically running out of the room."

He continued to look at her impassively.

"I only sleep well when you're here, Severus," she continued more quietly, her voice now sounding hurt rather than angry, "but if you want nothing to do with me, I'd prefer you make a clean break of it."

He was silent for so long that she thought he wasn't going to answer her, and she was going to have to watch him walk out on her for good.

"I walked out on you." His voice was low, the echo of what she had been thinking startling her, although the past tense only confused her further. He continued: "I took Calla and left you to be tortured."

Hermione stared at him, not understanding, finally uttering, when he said no more: "You got her out of Voldemort's sight." She frowned. "Though I still don't understand why you didn't Portkey her out of there straightaway."

He answered with evident reluctance: "If I took Calla and left you there, I would have been leaving you to certain death."

"But he could have killed her when you brought her back," she protested. "He was going to hurt her to make me talk."

"He was hurting _you_ to make you talk. He was going to kill _you_," the Potions master responded intensely, stepping closer to the bed.

"I'm quite aware of that, thank you," she responded tartly.

"And I left you there!" he yelled, now almost right beside her, the extra volume completely unnecessary. "I took Calla and left you there to die!"

She blinked up at him. "But you didn't. You came back."

"In time to see Dolohov curse you," he snarled. "By the time Potter and I got to you … I thought you were dead. I thought I'd stuck to the bloody plan and upheld the greater fucking good and it had cost me you!"

The look on his face showed plainly that he had gotten a bit carried away and said more than he had intended.

"So …" she tried to put the pieces of his convoluted reasoning together, "you think I'm angry with you for leaving me there?"

"How can you even stand to speak to me?" he demanded.

"Severus," she paused to marshall her thoughts, "if I'm even a little annoyed with you, it's for not escaping with Calla when you had the chance; I protected her for a reason. I was prepared to die for the greater good, just as you have always been, every time you went back to that maniac. But I'm _not_ angry with you. I can hardly be angrier with you for coming back than with Harry for rushing to my aid, and you don't think I'm angry with him, do you?"

Looking rather stunned, he shook his head.

"Coming back for me was daft, you know, completely stupid," she pursued, and saw his jaw tighten, "and I've never been more touched in my life."

Today seemed to be her day for leaving the man speechless.

"It can't really have escaped your notice how much I care for you." From the look on his face, it could. He had risked everything, his status as a spy, Calla's life, his own, all in an attempt to save her, so she continued, confessing her own ultimate truth: "Severus, I've been in love with you for ages."

He gaped at her and sort of fell blindly onto the end of the bed when she patted it in invitation. "You can't possibly—" he gasped out.

"But I can. I am," she pointed out inexorably.

"Weasley—" he uttered.

She laughed softly. "Severus, you know better than anyone that we would have killed one another within a week. We don't have the same interests or goals, and I'm not attracted to him, I haven't been for years, and even then … I went to the Yule Ball with Victor Krum, Severus, and he certainly doesn't look anything like _Ron_."

"So you're saying…."

"Still saying that it's you I'm crazy about, yes – have been since before even _I_ realized it," she answered, still amused by his descent into sentence fragments and words of few syllables. She tried to put her feelings into words to give him something concrete to go on with: "You love potions and books, and you're so … intense, it makes me shiver sometimes. Your voice could melt steel. And you listen to me and understand me, even when you argue with me…. You're one of the smartest people I know, and you have a wicked sense of humour, even if you sometimes misuse it. I don't think anyone could have done what you've done over the years. You're noble and courageous – even when you deny it." She'd caught his splutter. "I don't think you're perfect, Severus. You've treated Harry abysmally over the years for sins that were not his own. I could have smacked you for what you did to Professor Lupin in third year, and God knows that you took more pleasure than I think you ought to have done in putting down Gryffindor over the years. But nobody's perfect. Talk to Harry and Ron and you'll _know_ how many times I've annoyed them over the years, the errors I've made, the opinions I've carried even in the face of evidence to the contrary. That's what makes us human. I love all of you, Severus."

It took him a minute to find his voice. "You're … very young."

She shook her head, negating this objection. "Not so very. I'm younger than you, yes, but you know as well as I that the gap is not so large, especially in the wizarding world. I've seen a great deal and suffered more than many, and you know how close to death I recently travelled. You were my very last thought."

"I'm a Death Eater."

"You _were_ a Death Eater once upon a time," she clarified sternly, having long-expected this argument and remaining certain that it was utter bollocks. "For many years, however, you have been a spy for the Order, and I have seen you atone for your past."

"You won't want to be associated with me. Everyone will turn on you," he tried again.

"Not those whose opinions matter to me," she answered with dignity. "And before you protest that I don't know what it feels like to be ostracized, I weathered Rita Skeeter's campaign against me quite well in fourth year when I wasn't _actually_ in a relationship with Harry; that was just on principal. I'm more than willing to fight possible ill opinion for someone I'm completely in love with. Professor Dumbledore helped me achieve my Potions N.E.W.T. so that I am no longer your student, Severus. You honestly think he doesn't know how I feel?"

"Your friends—" he continued.

"Harry's going to have Calla with Draco. If he says one word against you and me, I'll curse him into next week. Besides, the lot of you have really been quite civil since my return, haven't you?"

It appeared to be hard for him to deny this.

"I … need to go," he said, sounding slightly desperate as he popped up from the bed.

"Of course," she forced the words out, and he was far too frazzled to notice if her voice was off.

Alone again in her room, she tried to squash her desperate wish that he, rather than responding with a string of paltry objections, had made some sort of return declaration to her outpouring of feelings. She supposed she should be grateful he hadn't simply walked out without a word or laughed in her face, but grateful was the last emotion she was feeling at the moment. His actions had seemed very indicative to her, but perhaps she'd only seen what she wished to see.

As the dawn light crept into the castle, it found Hermione, still perched on her bed, wide awake and even less hopeful than she had been the night before.

* * *

_Next up_: Chapter seven continues (with Hermione still trying to work out how to cope with life post-attack).

* * *


	8. Returned Part Two

**Author's Note**: This story is neither _HBP_ nor _DH_ compliant. _Feedback is always appreciated; reviews feed my muse and make me smile._

**Anti-Litigation Charm**: It all belongs to JKR; I play for non-profit amusement.

* * *

_**It All Started when the Girl Fell from the Sky**_

by Silver Birch

_Chapter Seven: Returned (Part Two)_

The next several days were very trying for Hermione. Severus, the only person she really wanted to see, was now avoiding her assiduously; when Madam Pomfrey arrived with Hermione's potions the next morning, she had felt it like a physical blow. Everyone else she encountered simply annoyed her, because they weren't Severus and because she couldn't talk to them about what she was going through. Telling Harry or Ron what had happened with Severus would result, she knew full well, in civility being abandoned with alacrity, and she was unwilling to risk such a breach.

Draco came closest to being a tolerable presence, because he continued to treat her as though nothing had changed. He still came to spend time with Calla or pick her up. He continued to greet Hermione and speak with her if he had something to say. But he didn't try to force her into a better mood or avoid her because her mood was upsetting him. Instead, he let her be, a concession, she hoped, to the fact that she had recently been tortured by Voldemort and could deal with it however she chose. Hermione wished that her friends, who had known her for _years_ and should, therefore, understand her at least a _little_ would have come to the same conclusion.

Even Calla's presence wasn't much of a comfort, because, especially with Voldemort now dead, the temptation to get information out of the girl was rather strong; who could it now hurt, after all, if Hermione asked for details about her own future…? Yet she had barred Harry from doing that very thing, and Hermione was not a hypocrite. She and the tiny blonde continued with the next few chapters of _The Hobbit_, but Calla seemed to know that Hermione's heart wasn't in it, for she didn't request reading time nearly as often as she had previously. To top it all off, Hermione wasn't sleeping well in Severus's absence, and her concentration was spotty, so even her studies remained difficult and rather unalluring.

The result of all these factors was that by the time she did see Severus again, she was wan and listless. Days of insisting to her friends and the mediwitch that she was fine (and finally that they could bugger off) had even robbed much of the anger out of her, so that she felt predominantly tired when the door to her bedroom opened to reveal the Potions master.

"Madam Pomfrey is ill-pleased with your progress," he said by way of greeting. "She seems to think you are suffering some sort of relapse."

"She's wrong," Hermione answered shortly. "I'm fine."

He was gazing at her critically from a spot barely in the room. "Your appearance has deteriorated since I last saw you."

A flicker of hurt stirred in her. Trust him to only mention how she looked when it was a negative comment. Her jaw tightened. "You never thought much of it to begin with; I'm surprised you … saw a difference."

His eyes narrowed, and he spoke stiffly, "I only came to suggest that if you are uncomfortable speaking to Madam Pomfrey, she could arrange for a counsellor from St Mungo's."

She frowned. "Why would I wish to speak to a counsellor?"

"To help you deal with what happened," he answered with an edge in his voice, as though she were being inordinately stupid.

"I'm coping with what happened," she said dismissively.

"Evidently not very well," he sneered.

"If all you've come here to do is sneer at me, you might as well turn right around."

"I was not sneering." His voice was quelling as he stared down his nose at her.

"My apologies, Professor." Her voice was cold.

He looked faintly startled before closing his eyes briefly and drawing a deep breath. He then conjured a chair and moved into the room to sit beside her bed.

"I did not intend to offend you, Hermione." His use of her name was slow and deliberate. "I wished only to urge you quite sincerely to speak to someone about what has happened to you."

She was somewhat mollified by his kinder tone, but still puzzled. "You all know what happened to me. I don't see how speaking to anyone else, especially some random stranger from St Mungo's, could possibly help."

He looked distinctly uncomfortable now. "I realize there are some things you might not wish to speak about to me … us … those you know, I mean."

Cocking her head, she regarded him nearly squirming beside her. "I have no idea what you're on about," she answered honestly.

"I was there," he pronounced, as though this clarified matters.

"I am aware of that," she said simply, because otherwise it would have been a scathing rejoinder about his utterly unhelpful statement of the obvious.

He was beginning to look frustrated as well as uneasy, and his tone was sharper when he spoke again. "I know what Death Eaters do to their victims."

"I'm sure you do."

Finally, he seemed goaded into an explanatory reply. "Death Eaters don't just torture their victims, Hermione, and you've not mentioned anything except curses to any of us!"

The dots connected, and she had to appreciate his effort, given how clearly he hadn't wanted to speak about the subject.

"No one raped me, Severus," she answered clearly and gently.

He simply stared at her for several heartbeats, but then he began, clearly disbelieving, "Dolohov—"

She held up a hand. "I didn't say no one attempted it. He was not successful. Either time."

"I will hardly deny that he was not the cleverest of men, but it doesn't exactly take a lot of skill to …" he trailed off.

Her lips twitched. It was a horrible subject, but having this conversation with a skittish Severus was simply too bizarre for her not to appreciate the elements of humour.

"I didn't mean it like that. Yes, he'd worked out _what_ to do, but he wasn't _able_ to do it. My charm prevented that."

"Death Eaters—"

Rolling her eyes, she finished his sentence for him: "—are usually able to remove Chastity Charms, yes; Voldemort had Bellatrix perform all the counter-curses. As I was not protected with a Chastity Charm, however, this was not a problem."

"What were you protected with, then?" he demanded.

"A Fidelity Charm." He sort of gaped at her, and she felt compelled to clarify: "The strongest kind: cast by me on myself, as a sincerest vow of loyalty to the man I love. Not to be broken."

"But the Solus Fidelity Charm is permanent," he protested.

"I know." She shook her head. "I hardly used it on a whim, Severus. You'd think years of instructing me would have taught you that I research everything thoroughly. I wished to be protected, and I … was willing to pledge myself."

Hermione had rarely seen him look so out of his depth. She could practically see the wheels turning in his brain.

"Then if you weren't assaulted by Dolohov, what's wrong with you?"

She let out a half-laugh, half-sigh. "I'd have thought you would have picked that up on your own, especially now you know about the Fidelity Charm." His look showed that this was not the case, so she reluctantly but honestly continued: "I was less than overjoyed to find that the man to whom I had pledged myself was avoiding me like the plague and couldn't be arsed to respond to my declaration of love."

Only the crackle of the fire opposite her could be heard for several long moments and then: "You're pledged to _me_?" It was said with sheer incredulity.

"Did you take a Stupidity Potion?" Hermione demanded. "What have I been saying through this whole conversation? Of course I'm pledged to you."

"I thought that perhaps…" he began, but did not finish the thought.

Quite suddenly, though, she understood. "You thought I'd only been saying that I was in love with you, but you'd now discovered that I used the Fidelity Charm to bind myself to someone else, the person I really fancied, Ron or Harry, no doubt."

He didn't speak; that was answer enough.

"Get out."

"Hermione—" he began.

Her voice was sharp and very clear. "If I have to ask you one more time, you won't be leaving under your own power."

He rose, jaw clenched, but he seemed to have scraped together enough sense not to say what he was thinking.

"Your potions—" he said, making a last attempt.

"You were perfectly able to give them to Madam Pomfrey when _you_ didn't want to see me; I daresay you can manage it again when _I_ don't want to see you," she responded coldly.

And then she was alone in the room, more miserable than she had been before he arrived.

* * *

At first, she thought that he had simply washed his hands of her; Madam Pomfrey continued to bring her potions, and she didn't catch so much as a glimpse of the man. But after three full nights' sleep, she realized that he hadn't abandoned her after all. The fourth night, therefore, she forced herself to remain awake and heard when he slipped through the door and came to sit by her bedside in a quietly-conjured chair. For several moments, silence reigned. 

"Thank you."

A rustle of fabric was the only sign that she might have startled him.

"You're welcome."

The wall sconces flared to life and she found him, still clad in his normal black robes, seated in a comfortable-looking, squishy chair that might have been conjured by Dumbledore except for its sombre colour. She pushed herself up into a sitting position, so that she felt less at a disadvantage, and said the first thing that came into her head.

"Do you get any sleep?"

"A little, in the chair," he answered simply.

She nodded. Silence fell once more. It was his turn to break it this time.

"What would you have done if the Dark Lord had chosen me rather than Dolohov?"

Since this possibility had occurred to her before she chose to cast this charm, her answer was immediate. "Never let him know that I was protected by a Fidelity Charm." She shrugged. "If he found out by giving me to someone else afterwards, I'd've made it clear that I had been acting solely upon my unreciprocated feelings for you."

He digested this in silence, and she wasn't sure if she should try to explain further, but then he spoke, abruptly changing topics. "You gave me much to consider when you explained your feelings."

Uncertain whether or not this required a response, she nodded again, and he continued, studiously looking at the bedspread rather than her: "Then Poppy came to me with her suspicions about what had been done to you. I felt even worse about my part in your ordeal and altogether certain that what I wanted to do now would be completely insensitive and inappropriate. When I found out that we were wrong, all my recent reasoning was suddenly rendered obsolete, and I reacted thoughtlessly."

She considered for a moment what he was offering. "Spies often have to react quickly and efficiently to new and startling information."

Conceding this with an inclination of his head, he once again addressed her quilt in a low voice: "I have always been better at being a spy than at forming emotional attachments."

Swallowing, she said with some difficulty of her own, "Well, you've managed quite effectively to emotionally attach me."

He met her eyes, finally, at those words. "Hermione."

She smiled faintly, unsure whether he was protesting or affirming, and returned in kind: "Severus."

"This is completely insane."

Definitely a protest, then.

"But more insane than a small child falling out of the sky, and Harry defeating Voldemort as a result?"

Hermione took his silence to mean that he agreed that Calla's appearance remained even stranger than anything the two of them might decide to do with their lives.

"So you're wholeheartedly endorsing the reversion to my original plan with regards to you?" he asked.

From the look on his face, he knew full well that she wouldn't want to answer such a question based on the limited information that she had, but she answered anyway, believing that one of them had to fully trust the other at some point.

"Yes."

He smiled faintly, muttering disparagingly, with a shake of his head, "Gryffindor."

The opportunity to respond was lost when she found that he had moved to perch on her bed, this time right beside her. He gently brushed up the contours of her face with his knuckles before curling his fingers through her hair. Her breath caught.

"Hermione," he breathed.

She would never, ever grow tired of the way he said her name.

His mouth descended and captured her lips in the kiss that she was certain she had been craving forever. The contact was electric. His lips were soft and warm, gently demanding as they slanted across hers. Twining her arms around his neck and allowing her hands to delve into his hair, she attempted to pull him closer still, to maintain their connection forever.

After what felt simultaneously like a glorious eternity and a too-short moment, he drew back so that they could breathe, and she made an instinctive moue of protest before she regained some semblance of control over herself. She was gasping in great lungfuls of air and reflected hazily that if he meant to rid her of her Gryffindor tendencies, he'd just spectacularly defeated his own purpose. She found herself smiling at him, inwardly castigating herself for the bright and no doubt foolish-looking grin on her face, but found, to her delight, that he was smiling back (though it would be quite a stretch to call his expression bright and foolish).

Performing the action with much less pain than would have been present only a couple of days ago, Hermione scrambled over to the other side of the bed and then patted the side she had just vacated.

"Get sleep in a horizontal position," she invited.

He was regarding her appraisingly.

"You can be gone in the morning before anyone sees you just as easily having slept in the bed as the chair. I'm not yet in a fit state to have my world rocked by anyone, so you needn't worry that this is a bid to, er—"

"—get me into your bed?" he finished, lips quirking.

She made a face at him. "Should I move back to the warm side, then?"

Forbearing to tease her further, he climbed more fully onto the bed and stretched his long legs out as he lay down. He made no move to shift the covers, but since she knew as well as he what it would look like if somehow Harry or Ron found them in bed together, she couldn't blame him for his choice; this way, while it wasn't exactly one hundred percent innocent, the fiction of the no contact, nightmare-relieving presence could be maintained. Once they were both settled, he doused the lights with a wave of his hand.

"Goodnight, Severus," she whispered into the darkness.

"Goodnight, Hermione," he responded quietly.

Smiling to herself, she fell asleep almost instantly.

* * *

The final week of Hermione's convalescence passed much more agreeably than the previous one had. Harry and Ron were puzzled by the seemingly inexplicable improvement in her behaviour, health, and outlook, but little Calla, who easily saw how much more frequently Severus was now visiting Hermione's rooms, smiled happily to herself. 

Hermione had taken to walking around much more frequently, exercising her nearly-healed limbs and muscles better than any potion or spell ever could, and she was now often to be found in her sitting room in a chair by the fire rather than in her bed. This is where she and Calla were currently curled up.

They had almost finished _The Hobbit_, and Hermione spared a moment to be thankful that they had not needed anything as large as the Battle of Five Armies to defeat Voldemort.

"'Where are the eagles?'" Hermione asked in Bilbo's little voice, continuing the narrative with Gandalf's wise and clear tone: "'Some are in the hunt,' said the wizard, 'but most have gone back to their eyries. They would not stay here, and departed with the first light of morning. Dain has crowned their chief with gold, and sworn friendship with them for ever.'

"'I am sorry. I mean, I should have liked to see them again,' said Bilbo sleepily; 'perhaps I shall see them on the way home. I suppose I shall be going home soon?'

"'As soon as you like,' said the wizard.

"Actually it was some days before Bilbo really set out. They buried Thorin deep beneath the Mountain, and Bard laid the Arkenstone upon his breast.

"'There let it lie till the Mountain falls!' he said. 'May it bring good fortu'—"

"You said it!" Calla squealed in delight, cutting Hermione off mid-word.

"Said what?" Hermione asked, puzzled.

"'There let it lie till the Mountain falls!'"

Calla was wreathed in smiles, and Hermione simply didn't understand.

"Yes, I did," she answered uncertainly. "Have you heard the words before?"

Beaming, the little girl nodded. "I win!"

"Win what?" Hermione asked, still at a complete loss.

"The game!" the child exclaimed. "Didn't Uncle Sev'rus explain it to you at all?"

"He must have forgotten. Tell me about it?"

She nodded proudly. "It was pretty simple 'cept I had to listen very carefully _all_ the time. Uncle Sev'rus said it would be good training for Potions class. I wasn't allowed to talk to you about the game, but if I noticed when you said the special words, then I won!"

"And the special words were 'There let it lie till the Mountain falls'?" Hermione repeated sceptically.

Calla nodded again, and Hermione had a sudden intuition.

"When did you begin playing this game?"

"Oh, before Christmas," the girl responded easily. "Uncle Sev'rus warned me it might take a long time, but he's going to give me a great prize. Oh, and I'm supposed to give you this." She fiddled with the sock around her left ankle before producing a small golden anklet, which she handed to the curious Gryffindor.

Hermione took the thin chain and contemplated the possibility of it being coincidence that the game Calla had started in the future ended in the past. _Not bloody likely_.

"And I'm the one who tells Severus that you won?" Hermione hazarded.

"Yup," Calla agreed, suddenly looking anxious. "You won't forget, will you?"

"No chance of that, angel," Hermione promised with perfect seriousness. "Shall we finish our book since he's teaching at the moment?"

Looking momentarily crestfallen that the glorious promised prize wasn't going to immediately materialize, Calla shook this mood off and resolutely nodded her head. They plunged back into the world of Middle-earth.

Harry and Draco came to pick Calla up before either of the girls had seen Severus, but Hermione gave the girl a smile to reassure her that she hadn't forgotten about the child's victory.

Once Hermione was alone, she retrieved the small chain from her pocket.

"_Specialis revelio_." Only marginally surprised by what she found, Hermione applied the appropriate spell, and a moment later the bracelet had been Transfigured back into its original form: a letter enclosed in a pale green envelope.

After contemplating the front in stunned silence, because seeing it in solid ink was different from only thinking it, she flipped the heavy paper over and reached for the flap. This was a letter from the future, a letter that their future selves had known would reach them, because they had known exactly when she would be reading this particular book aloud to Calla; Hermione told herself that it would be safer for her to read it first. As soon as she attempted to break the seal, however, she found herself yanking her stinging hands away as glowing dark green letters formed in the air, a foot above the missive, in Severus's distinctive handwriting.

_Nice try, Hermione. Be thankful I didn't use any of the myriad curses you could have recommended. It's time for me to know_.

The letters faded away once she had read them, and she shook the painful buzz out of her hands. It sort of served her right, she reflected ruefully; she should have remembered with whom she was dealing.

She was still just sitting there, staring at the letter, when Severus arrived. The fire had burnt down to embers as daylight faded, and it was now nearly too dim to read. The flames in the hearth and the wall sconces leapt up at Severus's command, the light and shadows trembling over the words that were repeating over and over in Hermione's head. She was only marginally aware when the Slytherin came to a halt beside her chair, issuing a greeting which she ignored. It wasn't until his sarcastic comment penetrated her fog of concentration that she really appreciated his presence.

"Most people are absorbed by the _contents_ of a letter, not its envelope."

Wordlessly, she held the letter out. He took it carelessly, his whole demeanour changing the instant he read the front. Very clearly, once again in Severus's hand, were two words, the two words that were now burned into Hermione's brain:

_Professors Snape_.

He sank blindly into the second armchair in front of the fire, which she barely had time to move behind him.

"How?"

Hermione was pleased to note that he hadn't yet managed to take his eyes off the words that had so captured her attention.

"Calla gave it to me. It seems you, the future you, I mean, wanted us to get it." She explained the "game" as Calla had described it to her before continuing, slightly embarrassed, "I, er, thought I might open it first and see what was in it, but future you had thought of that."

He finally looked up at her, eyebrow raised.

"Stinging Hex. Said it was a good thing future me hadn't had a hand in the cursing."

He was smirking now, balance recovered, as she had intended.

"It seems we are both to open it, then."

She nodded, and he proffered the letter, seal up. In the brightly dancing light, she could now make out the impression in the dark green wax clearly: a large tome with a rearing lion on it, tucked slightly behind a potions flask, with a small snake curling around the two objects. She smiled. They both reached for the seal, but then Severus's hand covered hers, stalling the movement.

"How long have you known?"

She stilled, hand curling under his.

"I hoped, obviously, for quite some time. I've been under the Fidelity Charm since about halfway through the summer after sixth year, and I—"

"Before Calla came," Severus clarified.

"Yes," Hermione confirmed, restraining herself from pointing out that the summer after sixth year was _obviously_ before the little girl had arrived; she knew this was a lot for Severus to take in. "I was quite certain how I felt about you, and it afforded me protection from crazy Death Eaters. When Calla arrived, she let a few things slip before I was able to make it clear to her how important it was that she not reveal information from our future. When you found us in my first 'detention', she'd just said that she didn't think you would much like me and Ron together."

"So you _were_ laughing at me," he accused.

She rolled her eyes, as he had deliberately missed her point. "We were laughing because the idea that you would approve of me and Ron as a couple was laughable; you chose that moment to come striding back into the room. I daresay you would have laughed as well, had our situations been reversed."

"She kept trying to call you Hermione Snape," he realized.

Hermione nodded. "It appears to be the only name she's ever known me by."

He was staring down at the envelope in their hands, although it was facing the wrong direction for him to see their name.

"We'd better open it."

She nodded, and they broke the seal as one. Severus removed the letter and unfolded it, holding it so that they could both read it.

_Brava, Hermione_, it began in Severus's writing, _I knew you'd gather that Gryffindor courage you usually possess in spades and show me the letter. I'm sure you've both gathered by now that we are writing with a serious purpose. As Hermione has yet to explain to you, Severus, she is rather adept at manipulating time without breaking_ too_ many rules to get the desired results_.

Severus looked up at her at this, but she studiously kept her eyes trained on the letter, which switched abruptly to Hermione's small, neat script.

_I knew I should have written this myself. Bugger off, Severus! I remember how I felt when you read that, and there'll be plenty of time for the two of us to talk about the past without any prompts from interfering future Slytherins. As Severus was_ supposed _to be saying, we know that the two of you (erm, us?) are up to the challenge and capable of keeping secret the exact details of Calla's transportation into the past._

_To put it quite baldly, it was us. Yes, Severus and I doped her with a potion, performed a ritual, and sent her back to you._

Severus took over again.

_Honestly, Gryffindors have no sense of style or subtlety. We orchestrated a well-planned incursion into the past in order to facilitate the defeat of Tom Marvolo Riddle. It took months of research to perfect the potion and find the ritual, but we worked it out painstakingly and tested it to ensure that it works, despite the fact that we _knew _it did; whatever you do, Severus, don't get Hermione started on the time paradox. We've included the instructions for the potion and the ritual, and we know ourselves well enough to know that you can't fail._

The letter switched again to Hermione.

_No pressure, though, really. But now you should know how Harry felt in third year, Hermione; he knew he could cast the Patronus because he'd already done so. You know you can make this potion and perform this ritual because Calla is there with you now._

Severus's hand finished the letter.

_Hermione wants to put lots of dire warnings in, but the letter could become a book at that rate. Don't mess about in the timeline for peril of your lives, swear yourselves to secrecy about the exact method, don't tell any one who'd tell on you, etc., etc. I'm sure you get the idea – in fact, I know you do. It's a brilliant achievement, even if no one but us will know the finer details._

_Professors Snape_

Beneath this sheet were the instructions for crafting the required potion (which was carefully calculated and slipped surreptitiously into Calla's pumpkin juice over a period of several days, explaining why she didn't remember it) and for the ritual (which was performed beforehand at the place where she would transfer, explaining why she didn't remember that part, either). Only when a person who had ingested the potion entered the area that had been primed by the ritual could the travel through time occur. It was clever and _insane_, and Hermione would never have agreed to it if she didn't already know they'd done it, and they could hardly leave Calla stranded in the past now.

"So," she said, frowning down at the pages, "could we only know this method of time travel because you and I now carry it into the future and then send it back to ourselves? But if that's the case, where did it come from to begin with? What were we researching for months if this," she shook the instructions, "works?"

Severus, however, took his future counterpart's advise and wiped thoughts of time paradoxes right out of her head by the simple expedient of tilting up her chin and kissing her senseless.

"What was that for?" she gasped out a considerable time later.

"Do I have to have a reason to kiss you?" he asked, eyebrow raised.

This was a very valid point, she thought. Smiling, she shook her head. "You may kiss me whenever you wish, Severus, for no reason whatsoever."

He returned her smile, a hint of a smirk lurking, but she couldn't really blame him for that.

She looked back down at the now slightly-crumpled pages she was holding, and a new thought struck her.

"Harry and Draco are going to kill us."

"Nonsense," Severus contradicted brusquely.

Hermione's eyebrows rose. "You … er … have met Harry Potter, haven't you?"

Severus rolled his eyes. "More times than I care to have done."

"And we put his daughter in mortal danger," Hermione said, pointing out what she thought had been obvious.

The sallow-skinned Slytherin shook his head pityingly. "Hopeless Gryffindor." She narrowed her eyes dangerously, and fortunately for his continuing health and safety, he continued with alacrity, "I don't know what you're talking about, Hermione. _I_ don't have any idea how Calla came back from the future. How could I?"

Hermione barely managed not to gape at him. There was no way Severus Snape, of all people, should be able to do "innocent". But his years of spying stood him in good stead, apparently, because while she _knew_ he was lying through his teeth, he had actually sounded quite believable.

"I'm not so sure that's such a good idea, Severus."

"Nonsense," he repeated. "What could possibly go wrong?"

Shaking her head bemusedly, Hermione reluctantly conceded that, whether or not it was a good one, they had a plan. She tried to squelch the part of her that was relieved, but she evidently hadn't done so quickly enough to prevent some tell-tale expression from crossing her face.

"What?" Severus demanded.

"I love Calla to pieces, so I don't want her to go, but …"

The Slytherin raised an eyebrow in a silent prompt.

She flushed and confessed in a rush, "I'm so behind in my revising."

Severus threw back his head and laughed aloud, the warm sound filling the room.

* * *

**Author's Note**: Excerpt taken affectionately (once again) from Tolkien's _The Hobbit_ (HarperCollins, 1995, pp 260-261). 

Sorry to anyone who actually knows any Latin; I made no real attempt (certainly not to decline properly) – "Solus" is simply the word I found online to mean alone/only/sole; it thus fit my intention for a charm performed by one's self on one's self. The more common varieties of Fidelity Charm would have been used in the past by a parent/husband on a daughter/wife, especially amongst pure-blood families worried to death about carrying on blood-lines; once the MoM outlawed the use of them on underage witches (and wizards) in the late 1800s, their use began to die out amongst these families until they became as uncommon as they are now. The Solus Fidelity Charm, due to its permanence and the fact that you had to willingly cast it on yourself, was never as popular, and most people don't even know about it anymore. As I'm sure you all gathered, these Fidelity Charms have no relation to JKR's Fidelius.

Also, since this is a bit of a pet peeve of mine in fanfic: I don't tend to hold with anyone except Voldemort supporters (or spies-who-have-to-be-very-careful) calling Riddle the Dark Lord, but in the case of Hermione in this story, this is a deliberate choice on my part; it's a habit that she picks up from Severus in their talks over the summer. We learn in _OotP_ that the pre-DA meeting is the first time she actually says "Voldemort", which means that she joined the rest of the wizarding world in using euphemisms from her first year onward. This means that using a euphemism wouldn't seem all that unusual to her, and while she doesn't _usually_ think of Voldemort as the Dark Lord, it comes out in her thoughts without consideration sometimes, especially if she's with Severus.

_Next up_: Hermione is healing. Both she and Calla are safe. Harry has killed Voldemort, and Ron helped. What does Draco think of all this? Harry is about to find out.

* * *


	9. Discussions Reprise Part One

**Author's Note**: This story is neither _HBP_ nor _DH_ compliant. _Feedback is always appreciated; reviews feed my muse and make me smile._

All you H/D readers out there have been pretty patient with me and my HG/SS (and all you HG/SS readers have now got a good fix, I hope), so here's the slash chapter a wee bit earlier than normal. Enjoy!

**Anti-Litigation Charm**: It all belongs to JKR; I play for non-profit amusement.

* * *

_**It All Started when the Girl Fell from the Sky**_

by Silver Birch

_Chapter Eight: Discussions Reprise (Part One)_

When Hermione had spoken and opened her eyes for the first time following her rescue, the relief Harry had felt was immeasurable. It was a relief so profound that, over the ensuing days, whenever he was irked by one of his myriad fans (who had popped out of the woodwork like prolific insects) or annoyed with a comment in the _Prophet_ (which had gotten no more intelligent following Voldemort's defeat), all he had to do was remember that moment in the hospital wing, and the irritation he was currently feeling would fade away. Besides, it was that or ensure that he travelled with Professor Snape in the hallways to avoid the groupies; although the professor permitted it, the smirking got on Harry's nerves. Harry had considered making sure that everyone knew how heroic the Potions master had been solely in the hopes that the Slytherin would soon suffer from as many sycophantic followers as Harry; a look at the tall, forbidding man as Harry walked at his side suggested, however, that the Potions master would never have Harry's problem with hangers-on.

It had tickled Harry's sense of humour that, after all the years of harping on about how he and Ron should obey the rules at Hogwarts, Hermione had effectively disobeyed Madam Pomfrey as soon as she was marginally able. He wondered if she'd gotten away with it because Professor Snape had been on her side…. Somehow, he didn't think that the man would have consented to bring Harry potions in _his_ room rather than in the infirmary.

Still, there was no point in resenting it, because not only was it a petty thought (and Harry wouldn't have relished the notion of Professor Snape dropping by Harry's dorm, anyway), it _was_ much nicer for all of them to be able to visit Hermione in complete privacy. They still weren't supposed to be advertising Calla's paternity since it brought up far too many unanswerable questions. It was easy enough to convince everyone that Calla had grown especially attached to Hermione after their shared ordeal. Since Harry was Hermione's friend and hardly about to abandon her during her convalescence, it followed logically that he and Calla would frequently end up in the same place at the same time. And since he was the noble hero of the wizarding world, it also apparently followed that he would help out with the little girl even if she were a Slytherin…. Public opinion was enough to make him want to vomit, sometimes, but when it worked to his advantage, he wasn't going to argue.

He hadn't asked because he wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer, but despite the fact that he had yelled Calla's identity to a room full of Death Eaters, not a word of that fact had made its way into the papers. He suspected, therefore, that the Order had made careful use of a Memory Charm or twenty, in which case Harry was quite impressed with Ron for recalling the indiscretion and ensuring that it was remedied. The main threat against Harry and, by extension, Calla was gone, but that didn't mean it would do to be incautious. Even though, if push came to shove, Harry would willingly have Obliviated complete strangers to keep his daughter safe, the idea that a mass Charm had to be used because of him (even on Death Eaters) was a little unsettling. On the other hand, all he had to do was think about what Bellatrix would have done with the knowledge, and he was well on his way to being reconciled to the idea.

It was another reason to be grateful that Hermione had gone with Calla, horrible as that thought made Harry feel; everyone assumed that he had gone after his best friend and therefore that saving the child had been a collateral benefit only. He enjoyed reading aloud the articles that now vociferously linked him and Hermione as a couple; not only did they make the injured girl giggle like mad, they had the added bonus of making Professor Snape stomp out of the room snarling about Harry keeping abreast of his press cuttings. The Gryffindor thought that rather paid back the smirking over Harry's groupies (not to mention that dismal Potions class in fourth year).

As Hermione made her revelations to Dumbledore and a selection of Order members, Harry was amazed anew at all the work she had gone to in order to protect his loved ones. She had been quiet and thorough, and Harry was reminded, with a fondness brought on by several years' distance, of all the hats she had industriously knit and hidden for the house-elf population of Hogwarts. And she complained that _he_ had a saving people complex. Throughout her recitation, whenever she had glossed over the details, Professor Snape had quietly interjected with all the gutsy comebacks he had heard her make to Voldemort. Harry blessed a mountain troll for bringing them together; Hermione made a brilliant best mate.

Harry had slept with Silencing Charms around his bed for several years, not wanting to wake his dorm mates when his sleep was disturbed by Voldemort. It had become such a habit to cast them that Harry hadn't even considered abandoning them after Voldemort's defeat, and this turned out to be all to the good. There was no longer a living Voldemort to torture him with the agony of others, but there appeared to be plenty that Harry's subconscious wanted to torture him with in Riddle's stead. Harry's nights were plagued with visions of Calla and Hermione's very dead bodies and his inability to save them. He knew intellectually that their being taken was not his fault; it had become quite clear that Calla had been kidnapped because she was an unknown and Hermione by accident. But the fact remained that Calla wouldn't have had to hide her parentage (and thus present such an irresistible mystery to Voldemort) if she hadn't been Harry's daughter, and Hermione wouldn't likely have been with Calla (and thus snatched along with her) if she hadn't been Harry's best friend and therefore perfectly happy to baby-sit his child. And he had even thanked his lucky stars more than once that Hermione had gone with Calla. That was like … like being thankful she had been tortured. He was a crap friend, that was all there was to it, and this was all his fault.

Watching as Hermione grew more and more restless, clearly frustrated by the restrictions forced upon her by her injuries, Harry felt horrible. It was his fault that she was in this state, he thought miserably. The know-it-all cornered him Saturday evening (although how an essentially bed-ridden woman could corner him when he was fully mobile, he had no idea). Ron was in detention with McGonagall (because causing a ruckus on the first day back to classes, especially when you were a hero, set a bad example, apparently), and Draco and Calla were maintaining the status quo and spending some time in the Slytherin common room.

"Sit," she ordered in a no-nonsense voice, indicating a spot on the bed right next to her. Harry perched there, knowing better than to argue when she took that tone. "The Dursleys were very wrong." Harry blinked at this seemingly random statement, but Hermione continued before he needed to seek clarification: "Everything is not your fault."

"Hermione—" he protested.

She shook her head. "You blame yourself – generally for everything that goes wrong around you. I'm not saying you should _never_ take responsibility for anything, but you have a habit of taking it too far."

He focussed on a small section of the rug on the floor, staring intently at the bright purple patch. It was much easier than looking Hermione in the eyes.

"If I hadn't—" he began with difficulty.

"If you hadn't what?" she interrupted with a trace of impatience. "Rescued me from a troll and become my friend? Loved Draco enough to have Calla? Cared about other people even a little bit?"

Put like that, it did sound sort of daft.

"But—" he tried again.

"This was all Voldemort's doing, Harry. You stopped him. And saved us. You _have_ looked in the mirror, haven't you?"

He nodded. After they had been kicked out from the conscious Hermione's bedside, he had finally gone to take a much-needed shower. He had looked into the mirror afterwards for the first time since the battle and, brushing his hair out of his eyes, had beheld an astonishing sight. He had thought his scar would be with him until his dying day (which he had thought would be sooner rather than later), but the physical reminder of what Riddle had done to Harry had gone with the snake-faced bastard to the grave, the same as all the Dark Marks. Harry had caught Professor Snape regarding his left forearm with unusual frequency over the last week, as though he could see through the cloth to the unblemished skin beneath, but since the professor said nothing about Harry's habit of brushing at a mark that was no longer on his forehead, Harry was respectfully silent as well. Voldemort was gone.

"I don't regret anything that happened to me," Hermione's voice brought him back to the present, "not when it brought about so much good. I'd do it again."

Harry swallowed heavily. "I dream about it, about you and Calla dying. I didn't do enough to stop it."

"Oh, Harry," she said softly, sighing. "I dream about it, too, about being tortured to death as Voldemort forces the truth about Calla out of me."

He met her eyes, startled. "Really?"

"Of course," she said, her look verging on pitying, but not so definitely that it rankled. "I think you forget, sometimes, that you are not alone in the universe. You were singled out by Voldemort and therefore a lot of what you went through was unique; but at the same time, you were part of the war that we were all part of. We've both lived through some horrific events, and there are bound to be repercussions as we figure out how to cope in the aftermath. But it doesn't mean we're to blame."

Harry had previously experienced a moment like this, when Ginny had chastised him for not considering that she had been possessed by Voldemort for much of her first year at Hogwarts. He didn't mean to be conceited or think that he was special, but it seemed that so many of these things happened to him over and over again, and….

Hermione's hands cupping his face brought his attention abruptly back to her. She leaned forward and gently touched her lips to his before pulling back so that they were less than a hand's-breadth apart. His eyes were rivetted to hers; he'd never noticed how bright they were before, flecks of gold dancing in the brown. Her gaze was intense, as though she were staring straight into his soul.

"It's not your fault," she enunciated carefully and clearly. "You came and you rescued us, and I could never blame you for any of it. I forgive you whatever blame you have assigned yourself."

A tight coil of tension that he hadn't even realized was there eased inside of him. He'd convinced himself, right after the rescue, that with Voldemort dead all Harry's issues were buried as well, but it seemed that he was still working through more of them than he had anticipated.

"Thank you," he whispered.

"Thank _you_," she returned. "I wouldn't be here now if it weren't for you."

He was about to point out that Professor Snape actually had more to do with that than he did when they were interrupted.

"Isn't this _cosy_."

Harry spun round to find that Draco was at the door, regarding them with narrowed eyes.

"Hello, Draco." Hermione, bless her, was cool as a cucumber, so Harry was able to repress the urge to jump off the bed and declare loudly that nothing whatsoever had happened. "I realized I'd never properly thanked Harry for rescuing me."

"And what sort of a 'thank you' were you planning?" The question was sneered, the insinuation obvious.

Hermione only laughed. "One that both of us found a sight more useful – and, I daresay, more enjoyable – than the one you're thinking of. Although I now have a whole host of creepy mental images," she shuddered dramatically, "to contend with, thank you very much."

Draco's aggressive stance relaxed, the tight line of his lips softening, and he sauntered all the way into the room.

"I live to serve, Granger," he drawled.

"Tut tut," Hermione chastised. "You know Calla won't let you get away with that now."

"Hermione," he corrected with a great show of reluctance, as though it were a horrible hardship.

She shook her head bemusedly at his behaviour. "I take it Calla is asleep?"

He nodded. "I came to tell Harry that the opportunity to participate in story time will have to wait for another evening, unless he fancies waking her up in order to read her to sleep."

"I'm sure he'll have lots of future opportunities that don't require interrupting his daughter's sleep cycle," Hermione said with a smile.

They heard Ron before they saw him, for he was grumbling nonstop about unduly strict professors, no tolerance towards mitigating circumstances, and unjust detentions. He appeared in the bedroom door, no end to his rant in sight, and they paid him no mind as he sank into a conjured chair by the fire. And then a fragment of what he was saying caught their attention.

"—why we couldn't have Professor Snape as our head of house, I don't know—"

His diatribe abruptly ended as he realized that the three of them were staring at him as though he were a Polyjuiced impostor.

"What?" he demanded.

"You said you wished you had Professor Snape as your head of house," Draco pointed out helpfully and with relish.

"I didn't—" Ron's mouth apparently caught up with what he'd been saying, and he froze, looking vaguely horrified. "I … I only meant favouring his students. Honest!"

"I might have to mention this to Professor Snape the next time I see him," Harry proposed as seriously as he could, inwardly as amused as Draco was.

Draco's "Pity you just missed him" was overridden by Ron's loud exclamation.

"Oy, mate!" the redhead protested. "Malfoy never got detentions for being boisterous, that's all I was trying to say."

"I'm sure Professor McGonagall would be interested in Ron's preference," Hermione pointed out blandly.

"Hey, I never—" He finally caught sight of the smiles they couldn't hide. "Bloody hell, that was cruel, that was. Tell Professor Snape," he muttered, shaking his head. "I'll have nightmares for a week."

Harry's eyes unconsciously sought out Hermione's, and they silently shared a brief regret that they didn't have Ron's sanguine humour and excellent recovery time. Still, Harry shook the thought off, they were doing alright, weren't they? Hermione was looking better day by day, and Voldemort was gone for good this time.

"Are you finished your Transfiguration essay?" Hermione asked.

"No, I won't allow it," Ron said flatly. "Classes don't start up again until Monday, and you're not even going. You are _not_ allowed to badger us about our homework. No way."

Ron, it transpired, was the only one who hadn't finished. Draco, of course, had completed it in his usual timely manner. Harry had found that slogging through school-related work prevented him from thinking too hard about anything else, not to mention the fact that he wasn't laying any bets on Hermione's injuries making her forget the "homework before Calla" rule she had established. There was no need to take unnecessary chances, anyway.

Hermione had begun to look rather tired and pale as she lay in her bed, so Harry dragged Ron away with the promise of working on his Charms paper while the redhead struggled through their head of house's assignment. The Gryffindor girl's voice caught them at the threshold.

"Incidentally, Draco," they all looked back, "if I were going to rock somebody's world, I'd close my bedroom door first." She smiled brightly. "Goodnight."

"What?" Ron demanded. "Whose world is she rocking?"

Certain that Hermione was laughing herself silly in her bedroom, Harry attempted to explain to a madly-curious Ron and an increasingly-amused Draco (without giving away any embarrassing details) what had transpired in the bedroom before Ron had arrived. _Hermione is _evil, _no question about it_, Harry reflected. Although, he had to admit, it was nice to see Ron and Draco forgetting to snipe at one another. _Alright, maybe not_ completely_ evil. Sort of clever, actually_, Harry grumbled to himself as he watched the two boys laughing. _Bloody Gryffindor know-it-all_.

* * *

As they started the new week, the number of officials who needed to speak to Hermione and Harry about what had happened finally tapered off. Dumbledore had been quite good, as always, about not letting unnecessary people get at either of them, but certain questions had to be answered. Now that classes had resumed, they didn't have as much free time as before, but, all things considered, Harry decided he would take school over officials any day, despite the fact that this experience with the Ministry had been downright pleasant compared to some of the encounters Harry had had with them over the years. It seemed that succeeding in killing Voldemort really did hold a certain cachet. At least until public opinion did an about-face, he was the Ministry's new poster boy – and the Minister's new best friend. Even Ron was only bemused. 

"It's like they didn't expel you, or try you in front of the entire Wizengamot, or keep Umbridge on even though she carved words into your hand…."

"That's politics," Hermione and Draco said at the same time. They grinned at one another.

"Finished!" Calla declared from her seat at Hermione's desk, where the surface clutter had been made into several rather precariously high piles so that a portion of the desk was available for the little girl's use. "Want to see?"

Hermione had Transfigured a set of water paints and coloured pencils for the little girl, and it appeared that she had finished the masterpiece she had been working on so industriously. They all made appropriate sounds in the affirmative, and Calla bounded over with a square of parchment and proudly displayed it.

At first, all Harry could see were a lot of really bright colours. As he interpreted his daughter's childish and enthusiastic effort, he felt his heart constrict as he realized anew how much he had missed as a child.

"That's you, Daddy," she said, pointing to a big red blob with a little orange blob on top, covered in a black mass that Harry reflected was probably an accurate representation of his hair. "And there's you, Father." This blob was green topped with orange and covered in a large enough quantity of yellow to suggest that Draco grew his hair out. In between them was a smaller set of wobbly ovals wearing blue. "And this is me."

The three figures had spindly arms connecting one another, and their little faces had tiny dots for eyes and oversized red grins done with the pencils. They were standing on spiky green grass under a giant swirl of blue and white. A large grey mass on the left suggested that they were on Hogwarts grounds.

"It's beautiful, love," Harry managed to get out over the lump in his throat, and Draco nodded his concurrence.

She beamed up at them.

"I wanted to do one of Aunt 'Mione and—" The woman in question cleared her throat loudly. Calla hurried on: "But I thought I'd do the three of us to make a fam'ly portrait."

"Shall I dry it for you?" Draco offered.

Calla nodded, and an incantation later, she held a perfectly dry picture whose colours were no longer sliding down the page and dripping onto Hermione's quilt.

"C'I have a biscuit now?" their daughter asked hopefully.

"Go wash up first," Draco instructed.

The little girl instantly abandoned her painting on the end of the bed and scampered into the bathroom, where she climbed onto the stool the house-elves had brought for her so that she could reach the sink. Harry took the opportunity to banish the paint from Hermione's furniture, and the Gryffindor smiled her thanks.

Calla was back a moment later, all ready for an evening run to the kitchens. They were halfway to the door when Harry realized that Ron wasn't with them; he was still sitting on the bed.

"You go ahead," he said, waving them on casually. "I'll stay and keep Hermione company."

Harry should have known then that something was up. When had his best friend _ever_ declined the opportunity for food? But Calla was full of her usual enthusiasm, so it was easy enough to brush Ron's anomalous behaviour aside. His absence did, however, make them decide not to eat in the kitchen but to take the food back so that Ron and Hermione could enjoy it, too.

This choice, it soon became apparent, meant that they were back much sooner than Ron had anticipated. The two Gryffindors in the bedroom evidently hadn't heard the trio return to the sitting room, because they continued their conversation, and Harry and his companions could clearly hear every word.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Ron," Hermione was laughing, "of course Draco wasn't going to be a Death Eater."

"How can you possibly know that? Told you, did he, and you believed him?"

"We had a very civil working relationship," Hermione replied, now beginning to sound exasperated. "We weren't best friends. But use a little common sense. Draco knew about Calla, and he didn't say anything to Voldemort. He could have handed her over at any time and given Voldemort a sure-fire way of getting to Harry. He didn't. I'd wager it didn't even cross his mind. He also knew that Severus knew about Calla, and he didn't hand Severus over to the Dark Lord, either. Draco made his allegiances quite plain."

"Aunt 'Mione is very fond of you," Calla confided in a whisper to Draco.

"I'm growing quite fond of your aunt," Draco replied, sounding rather blindsided by this show of loyalty. Ron's voice rose in the other room.

"I'm just saying—" he cut himself off abruptly to demand sharply, "Since when is it 'Severus'?"

Hermione's voice grew colder still. "I believe the man whose robes were soaked in a large quantity of my blood as he worked desperately to save my life can be referred to by me by his given name."

Ron cleared his throat loudly and wisely dropped his tangent. "It's a little odd they hardly even questioned him, though, isn't it?"

"They didn't need to question him, Ron," Hermione said impatiently, "not when he was being vouched for by the Saviour of the Wizarding World."

"But what could Harry say about him, really?" Ron demanded.

"That he wasn't supporting Voldemort," Hermione said, her tone making it clear that she thought that this was obvious and that Ron was being more stupid than usual. "Dumbledore vouched for him, too, as did I. The Ministry certainly didn't have proof to the contrary; they would have been daft to go against us."

"But what did _you_ say about him?" Ron wanted to know, clearly frustrated.

"That without him I wouldn't have been nearly as prepared to face Voldemort as I was. Dumbledore was kind enough to point out that we had weekly meetings together, and it all passed very well."

"But those meetings were about your Head Girl and Head Boy duties!" Ron snapped.

Hermione's answer was calm: "What passed at those meetings is known only to the two of us."

"Are you saying he _did_ help you prepare?" the redhead asked sceptically.

Hermione's response would have made Professor Snape proud. "I'm saying you'll never know – and neither will the Ministry. They're content with what we've told them; you should be, too."

Harry looked over at Draco. If Ron had been able to see the Slytherin's face at that moment, he would have had his answer; Hermione had clearly been lying through her teeth, and their meetings really had been academic in nature.

"Do you really think he was going to be a Death Eater?" Hermione asked into the silence.

"I think somebody should have checked, that's all," Ron said sullenly.

"Someone did." Hermione's tone said that Ron had missed a crucial concept. "Have you forgotten Calla?"

"What does she have to do with this?" Ron asked impatiently.

"You can be a real idiot, Ronald Weasley," Hermione said severely. "Harry loves Draco enough to have a child with him. I'd venture there's almost nothing he wouldn't do for him. And you think he doesn't know what's in Draco's heart? I pity the woman you fall in love with."

"There's no need to get personal," Ron protested, sounding offended.

"The hell there isn't," Hermione snapped. "Harry and Draco have the chance to be happy, but you're making base accusations."

"I was a little confused, that's all. I didn't say any of this to Harry, did I?" Ron defended himself. "I ran it by you."

Suddenly, Hermione gave a light chuckle, and they could feel the instant lowering of tension even from the other room. "And you are now rather regretting it?"

"Well," Ron's voice lightened immediately, "wishing I hadn't picked a grumpy day, yeah. They'll bring me some biscuits, right?"

"I'm not sure you _deserve_ them," the laughter still threading her tone ruined the attempt at severity, "but yes, I think they'll bring you some."

This reminded Calla of their mission, because before Harry or Draco could say anything, she had burst into the bedroom, proffering the promised treat. Studiously not looking at one another, Harry and Draco followed.

Ron was so pleased by the presence of the wide variety of biscuits the house-elves had provided that he didn't think to question the perfectly-timed entrance. Hermione looked more suspicious, but both Harry and Draco kept their heads down and let Calla and Ron natter on about their favourite pudding and the relative skills of the Hogwarts house-elves and Ron's mum. Hermione must have noticed, Harry realized, or she wouldn't have let Calla distract Ron with knowledge from the future. Good to know Mrs Weasley was still cooking up a storm, though.

Hermione called a halt to their feast before Calla could consume too much sugar, and even Ron, though he was eying a particularly tempting-looking chocolate chip biscuit, knew better than to argue with her. Noticing how late it was, they rose to leave.

"Aren't you going to take your painting?" Calla asked hesitantly.

Harry looked up, startled. "My painting?"

She nodded, looking rather crestfallen. "I made it for you and Father."

Harry hurried to retrieve it. "I didn't realize it was for us, munchkin. I'll put it up in the dorm tonight."

She was immediately happy again, and although Harry realized he should have cleared his taking the picture with Draco, he didn't think now was the time to bring it up. They bid Hermione goodnight, and Harry hugged and kissed his daughter. In the hallway, they separated, Draco and Calla heading down to the dungeons, and Harry and Ron making their way to Gryffindor Tower.

Over the next several days, Harry's emotions fluctuated a great deal. At first, he was simply relieved that Draco hadn't brought up Hermione's revelations, because Harry was quite busy being horribly embarrassed on his own. He wondered how his best friend saw so much and also wished that he was really as certain of Draco's heart right now as she thought he was. Harry knew how _he_ felt, and he knew how he _wanted_ Draco to feel, but he didn't have a lot more than that to go on. It should have been a good sign, Voldemort being defeated, but Harry's initial hope was being rather brutally dashed by Draco's current behaviour.

For as the week progressed, it finally became apparent to Harry that Draco, rather than considerately not discussing the sensitive information revealed by Hermione, was actually doing his best to have as little interaction with Harry as possible.

Harry reckoned this had to be what being divorced with joint custody of a child must feel like; Draco was civil to him in Calla's presence and interacted quite ably with Hermione and Ron, but the warmth that Harry had thought he'd been starting to see was missing, and he couldn't for the life of him catch the blond boy alone.

No doubt Hermione could have cleared up his confusion, but it was obvious even to Harry that she was suffering from her own issues. Overnight, it seemed, she had lost a great deal of energy and colour and … life. She also kept insisting that everything was fine, and when she actually told him and Ron to bugger off, they beat a hasty retreat. Madam Pomfrey was told off as well and had looked quite concerned, so the two Gryffindor boys agreed that the mediwitch would be sure to take care of the problem. After all, she was a professional and surely better-equipped to deal with relapsing or depressed or just plain pissed off patients, or whatever Hermione was. The eternally eleven-year-old part of Harry wouldn't have minded seeing Professor Snape told off, but the Head of Slytherin, with remarkable perspicacity, Harry thought, wasn't to be found anywhere near Hermione these days. Since turning to Ron for advice about his problems with Draco was out of the question, Harry was on his own.

Finally, with no better ideas, Harry resorted to the tried and true: wandering the halls well after curfew. Since Draco was doing both his and Hermione's rounds, it was only a matter of time until they ran into one another.

Sure enough, nearing midnight Thursday night, Harry's peripatetics crossed Draco's.

"What are you doing out of bed, Potter?"

Oh, bugger. It was even worse than Harry had thought if he rated his surname.

"Looking for you."

"You've found me."

He couldn't have sounded more uninviting.

"I need to talk to you," Harry tried. Draco still looked stony, so the Gryffindor added, "Please."

Without uttering a word, Draco turned away from Harry and continued down the hall. Hoping for the best, Harry followed. Inside the Room of Requirement, he found one comfortable-looking, dark green armchair and one small wooden chair that would have been right at home in Professor Snape's office, designed specifically to make the student who sat in it uncomfortable. There was diffuse, gloomy lighting that trailed off into large shadows, suggesting that the room was dauntingly vast and utterly unsuited for a private conversation. _Oh, yes, this is definitely an auspicious beginning_, Harry thought gloomily. The Gryffindor sat, trying not to squirm on the hard wood, and Draco sank into the armchair, looking comfortable and elegant. They stared at one another. It was the hospital wing all over again, except that this time Harry felt even more out of his depth, and Draco didn't simply look aloof, he looked downright untouchable.

"I don't know why I'm here," Harry confessed.

This did not have the effect he had intended, for it brought Draco out of his chair with a sneer on his face. He headed for the door.

"Wait!" Harry called. "I didn't mean it like that. I'm here because you're upset, I … I just don't know why that is."

Draco turned back, repeating Harry's words flatly: "You don't know why I'm upset."

Harry shook his head. Draco's lips tightened.

"Congratulations, Potter. I didn't think you could annoy me more, but you've managed it."

"I know you've been upset since we overheard Ron and Hermione talking about us," Harry said defensively.

Draco made a disbelieving sound. "Shows what you know."

Harry was out of his chair now, facing off from Draco. "Then tell me!" he said desperately.

The Slytherin ripped a ring Harry hadn't noticed before off the pinkie finger of his right hand and held it up.

"Do you know what this is?"

Nonplussed, Harry shook his head.

"Hermione gave it to me. It's one of her modified Portkeys."

"O-kay," Harry said, dragging the two syllables out, not understanding at all.

"She trusted me," Draco said bitterly.

Frowning, Harry answered quietly, "I trusted you."

"You trusted me?" Draco repeated. He let out a sharp bark of incredulous laughter, volume rising as he said, "You trusted me?! Trusted me enough to accuse me of sending my own daughter to the Dark Lord, you mean?"

"I didn't—" Harry attempted to protest.

He'd finally cottoned on. He had thought when Draco had said nothing after Harry returned with Calla and Hermione that the Slytherin had forgiven him for that night. Now it was clear that Draco had simply been biding his time, waiting, at the very least, until they knew Hermione was well. And now … well, now the shit was hitting the fan.

"You trusted me enough to accuse me of lying about the envelope I found," Draco accused, grey eyes narrowed to flinty slits as he stared Harry down.

"I only—" Harry tried again.

But Draco had got a full head of steam, and he was away, yelling now. "You trusted me enough never to want Calla anywhere near the dungeons, trusted me enough not to mind Hermione being given undeserved detentions so that she could look after Calla instead of me."

"I—"

"No doubt you were happier when Severus was looking after Calla, because at least he was a member of your precious Order!" Draco spat.

Now, really, that was the outside of enough; he was in love with Draco and Professor Snape drove him bonkers, how could Draco possibly think–?

"Dr—"

But the Slytherin roared right over him. "Oh, yes, Potter, I'll buy it – you trusted me so fucking much that you left me in Dumbledore's office while you and _Weasley_ went to rescue our daughter!"

Goaded beyond endurance, Harry cried out, "I couldn't lose you both!"

This stopped Draco cold. "What?"

Pink tinged Harry's cheeks as his hastily-spoken words demanded clarification that he hadn't been ready to give. But now that Draco had stopped yelling, Harry could hardly refuse to continue.

With difficulty, he confessed, "There was what seemed a very good possibility that I was going to lose Calla…. I couldn't lose you, too. I had to protect you. So you couldn't come with us."

Draco's look was very intense, his eyes dark and stormy, making Harry want to squirm.

"That's the sweetest and most asinine thing anyone has ever done for me, Harry Potter," Draco pronounced in a low voice. "But it isn't your choice to make. It's the bad witch who locks Rapunzel up in the tower, remember?" At Harry's puzzlement, Draco rolled his eyes and explained, "Calla has some very specific bedtime story requirements."

Harry smiled briefly before saying very seriously: "I said some awful things to you. I was angry, and you were the easiest person to lash out at. I'm very sorry."

"You accused me of handing our daughter over to Voldemort."

It was the first time Harry had ever heard Draco say the name, and it was overshadowed by the hurt that the Slytherin hadn't hidden in those quietly-repeated words. Harry stepped closer.

"I'm so sorry," the Gryffindor said with every ounce of sincerity he possessed. "I wasn't thinking rationally, but I never really thought you'd done it. Draco, if I'd truly believed I had the person who knew where Calla was right in front of me, I'd have taken him at wandpoint and poured Veritaserum down his throat. We've had years of being angry at one another and blaming one another for whatever goes wrong at school; I fell back on that, but I know you'd never hurt Calla, I swear I do."

Draco spoke so quietly that Harry assumed he had misheard.

"What?" he asked, stepping closer still, so that he and Draco were only a half metre apart.

Draco's look was fierce as he muttered for the second time, "I said I'd never hurt you, either, daft Gryffindor idiot."

A broad grin spread across Harry's face; he had never been so happy to be insulted in his life.

"She was right, you know," he admitted, continuing at Draco's look of inquiry: "Hermione. Anything you want. You have only to ask, and I'll do it for you."

"Hmm…." Draco smiled. "I'll have to keep that in mind."

Such a promise should probably have made Harry nervous, coming as it did from such a consummate Slytherin, but it didn't. Instead, Harry was feeling elated, excited, and almost dizzy with happiness and anticipation.

The Slytherin's eyes were bright. "I think I've finished my rounds for the night."

"Have you?" Harry asked, somehow managing to remain outwardly calm.

Draco nodded. "Dobby is keeping an eye Calla."

Harry nodded, but then what Draco said actually registered. "What? _Dobby_?"

Lips quirking up, perhaps at Harry's ready agreement before he processed what he had heard, Draco said, "Yes, Dobby. House-elf, you know? You freed him from my family?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "Prat. I know who Dobby is. I hadn't realized the two of you were still … on speaking terms."

Draco's smirk deepened. "Oh, he never disliked me like he disliked my father, but we weren't exactly what you'd call close, no. But he took one look at Calla and knew exactly who she was: a Malfoy child and the daughter of the wizard he venerates most in all the world. There's nothing he wouldn't do for her, and he's very happy to keep an eye on her at night when she's sleeping and I need to be out of my rooms."

"I'll have to remember to give him more socks," Harry said, still rather stunned by this revelation. "They're his favourite article of clothing, you know, since—"

"Since you tricked my father into giving him one and his freedom along with it, yes." Draco's tone was wry. "Shall we dredge up more unsavoury history?"

Harry's head tilted as he considered the Slytherin before he offered, cautiously, "I'm not sure much of our history is exactly wholesome, Draco. I don't think we can avoid all of it all the time."

"It wasn't a blanket statement for all eternity," Draco explained with an eye roll. "I was thinking more of the present moment. Is that really what you want to be doing right now?"

Harry blinked and realized that the room had changed utterly. They were now in a comfortable room that looked to be about the size of one of the Gryffindor dorms. It was reminiscent, in fact, of the configuration in which they had drunk hot chocolate after their snowball fight, except that instead of comfy chairs there was a large, luxurious-looking four-poster. It had the fluffiest-looking quilt Harry had ever seen, a large quantity of pillows, and dark green drapes that the Gryffindor thought might be made of silk. There were strategically-placed candles supplementing the soft light from the fire, a bedside cabinet covered with small, interesting-looking bottles, and there was no way Harry's imagination had come up with anything this elegant.

"I—" He seemed to be having trouble with his voice. "Whatever you want is good with me."

Draco smiled, a genuine smile that lit up his eyes, and Harry was reminded of the moment when he had realized that he had fallen for Draco. It had been the first week of October in sixth year (nearly a month after their fight) and their first Hogsmeade weekend. For reasons he could no longer recollect, he had been separated from Ron and Hermione, so he had been alone when he came across the two Slytherins in Scrivenshaft's. They hadn't seen him, as they were examining a display of quills, whereas he had been in amongst the tightly-packed rows of parchment. It had been the first time Harry had heard Draco laugh genuinely, and Harry would be forever grateful to Pansy Parkinson for whatever she had said that had allowed Harry to witness Draco nearly convulsing with mirth. There had been no trace of the usual haughtiness and coldness that characterised Draco's demeanour when he dealt with Harry. He had looked relaxed, cheeks tinged slightly pink, eyes open and unguarded, and Harry had been utterly lost.

Hands on his face recalled Harry to the present; Draco was cupping his face, much as Hermione had done when Draco caught them together. Harry had barely time to wonder if this was a deliberate claiming gesture on Draco's part when the searing heat from the contact burned thoughts of Hermione right out of his head. The Slytherin's eyes were molten silver.

"What I want is you."

This was a smashing idea as far as Harry was concerned, and Draco evidently saw his consent, for he leaned closer and brought their lips together.

When he had kissed Cho, Harry had been left with the impression (still famous amongst his friends) of "wetness". She had been soft and yielding and, well, unhappy. Conflicted. Draco, by contrast, was composed of entirely pleasing planes and angles. There was no way "wetness" could survive in the incinerating heat that was generated between them on contact, coiling inside Harry and feeling as though it would spark out of his skin, it was so all-consuming. Everything from Draco's mouth to his grip (for his hands had moved to grasp the dark strands of hair at the back of Harry's head) was firm, his movements assured; the Slytherin had made it quite clear that being with Harry was precisely what he wanted. It seemed as though being with Harry made him happy, in fact, rather than the opposite. And there was no doubt in Harry's mind that this was the best thing that had ever happened to him; he and his Patronus would be set for life. If he'd known it was this brilliant, he'd've tried propositioning the Slytherin in a dark hallway _ages_ ago. This kiss was perfect.

Draco tried to ease out of the kiss, but every time he made to pull away, the lust-fogged Harry simply continued to follow him, his hands having long ago moved to clutch at the material covering Draco's chest. The Slytherin finally had to physically restrain Harry, arms clasping the Gryffindor's biceps, although he looked far too pleased to be annoyed.

"That good, eh?" he asked, voice pleasantly husky.

"Spectacular," Harry agreed, voice reflecting his dazed state. He continued with more honesty than sense: "Way better than with Cho."

The fire in Draco's eyes didn't look entirely pleasant now, and he released Harry completely, leaving Harry feeling bereft at the absence of the touch he now desperately craved. Harry's voice of reason, which always sounded like Hermione, was informing him that he'd made a serious misstep, and he remembered, far too late, how Cho had always reacted when Hermione's name came up.

"I hadn't realized we'd made it a contest. It may take all night if I compare all the way back to, what was it, fourth year?"

"Fifth," Harry said miserably, for he recognized that tone and hadn't particularly wanted to be on the receiving end ever again. "You needn't bother. I'm sure all your kisses have been brilliant."

"You're damn right," Draco said angrily, "although they obviously don't compare to those bestowed by the Saviour of the Wizarding World."

"Haven't I just said yours was way better than the one with Cho?" Harry demanded, frustrated and desperate.

"If you had to cast your mind all the way back to _her_ to come up with an inferior kiss—" Draco snarled.

Harry's happiness had turned to ashes and seemed to be clogging his airways. "I only wanted you to realize how wonderful it was." He knew his face was aflame with embarrassment now. "I don't exactly have a lot of kisses to compare it to."

"You could have picked someone less insulting than Chang," the Slytherin spat. "A boy, at least."

Knowing his expression had probably already given him away, Harry nevertheless made a belated bid for freedom; this night had already turned into a complete fiasco (the story of his life, really), and Harry didn't think he could bear to hear Draco laugh at him.

When the steely grip forced him to turn back, it wasn't to face laughter.

"Only Chang?" the Slytherin asked quietly.

Harry shrugged, gaze locked round about the Head Boy insignia on Draco's robe.

"She was in fifth year and at the beginning of sixth…."

Draco completed his sentence for him. "At the beginning of sixth you started holding out for the suspicious, cold-hearted bastard?"

He gave a tiny nod. Draco's finger under his chin brought Harry's eyes back up to the other boy's face.

"You…" the blond sounded as though he were trying to process a difficult concept, "you've never kissed another boy."

"It's only ever been you," Harry admitted in a whisper.

Draco's brow was furrowed, and his words self-condemnatory: "And I completely and utterly ruined it."

Harry was feeling quite charitable towards a not-incensed, not-laughing Draco, so he offered, "At least you didn't cry."

The Slytherin stared, uncomprehendingly, and then exclaimed, outraged, "Chang _cried_?"

Thinking that Draco was going to suspect his skill, as Ron had done, he hastened to clarify: "She was already crying, sort of, and Hermione said it was—"

"She must have appalling taste," Draco said, interrupting him. "It really was spectacular, you know. And I _do_ have other experience."

Harry felt an odd mixture of elated with this praise and painfully inadequate and … horribly jealous probably about described it.

"Harry, I'm glad you said, even if this will go down in history as a Malfoy's most botched seduction. This way I know—"

"To be gentle with me?" Harry asked sourly, feeling like a girl.

"What a gift you're giving me," Draco corrected gently. "How special you are."

That certainly sounded much nicer, Harry recognized with relief. It made him feel as though he were coming into the relationship with more than a whole lot of inexperience.

"This isn't only your first time, Harry," Draco continued, "this is _our_ first time together. We're all new to me, too."

And if that was a line, it was a bloody good one, because Harry now felt quite special. He would simply have to see that this was Draco's last first time. He would, he realized, much rather be Draco's last than his first.

"You know," he said, smiling, "it's good you've got experience – from what I've read, this could have been quite awkward if neither of us knew what we were doing."

Draco laughed, but reached over to cup Harry's cheek. "You always do that. Bounce back from blows that would kill other people. I don't deserve you."

"Either way, you have me," Harry answered easily. "Isn't it about time you did something with me?"

Gentle fingers pulled Harry inexorably closer.

"Oh, Harry, I'm going to do a great deal with you, I promise."

For the second time, they kissed, and all thoughts of the world beyond the room they inhabited disappeared completely as Harry was lost to the wonder of loving and being loved by Draco Malfoy.

* * *

_Next up_: Chapter eight continues (with the morning after).

* * *


	10. Discussions Reprise Part Two

**Author's Note**: This story is neither _HBP_ nor _DH_ compliant. _Feedback is always appreciated; reviews feed my muse and make me smile._

**Anti-Litigation Charm**: It all belongs to JKR; I play for non-profit amusement.

* * *

_**It All Started when the Girl Fell from the Sky**_

by Silver Birch

_Chapter Eight: Discussions Reprise (Part Two)_

A high-pitched voice was buzzing incessantly, gradually resolving itself into recognizable words.

"Oh, Harry Potter, sir, Dobby is so pleased!"

The Gryffindor had been having such a lovely dream. He didn't want to wake up, and he certainly didn't feel up to dealing with the world's most enthusiastic house-elf.

"G'way, Dobby," he groaned.

"I would be going, sir, only it is Mistress Calla I is coming about."

A rush of adrenaline burned away the residues of sleep, and Harry sat up abruptly, alarmed. "Calla? Is she alright?"

"Keep your knickers on, Potter." This came from the mass radiating warmth on Harry's left-hand side, the one that Harry had only peripherally noticed as he surged to wakefulness. "I take it she's awake, Dobby?"

The house-elf nodded, suggesting that Harry was not having a very pleasant hallucination.

"Draco?" he ventured.

"Are you always this daft in the mornings, Harry?" Draco asked with a disparaging snort of amusement. "Who did you think I would be? I'll be there shortly, Dobby; you needn't say anything unless she worries."

With a last toothy grin, evincing the most sincere happiness, Dobby was gone.

Harry turned to face the marvellously-dishevelled flesh and blood Slytherin sharing his bed, the cautious hope glowing in him beginning to give way to an even better solidified happiness. "Just stunned by my good fortune. I thought I'd had a really pleasant dream."

"I am quite real, Harry." Draco sat up, stretched, and, noticing the way Harry's eyes were lingering appreciatively over his exposed torso, grinned. "Were it not for our daughter, I would be quite happy to give you an active demonstration of that fact. As it is, if I'm getting up, you are, too. We'll tell her you're breakfasting with us as a special treat. Come on, out of bed."

It took them several long, enjoyable minutes to get out of bed and get dressed, shooting frequent glances (and occasionally drawn-out stares) at one another. At the door, Harry halted Draco's progress with a hand on his arm.

"Good morning," he murmured before kissing the Slytherin lingeringly, taking the opportunity to delve his hands into Draco's hair, because he loved how silky and soft the strands were.

He was fast becoming addicted to these kisses … and the hair – to all of Draco, really. When he drew back, Draco was smiling.

"Yes, it is."

* * *

Two days later, Harry had hatched a bit of a mad scheme. If Hermione hadn't been in the worst mood yet, he might have confided in her. As it was, he sort of blamed her; not only did she consent to take Calla for the morning without even asking what he and Draco were going to be doing, she'd been the one to point out the lengths to which he was willing to go for Draco in the first place. And since the Slytherin had never once even broached this subject, Harry had a pretty good idea of what the blond was willing to do for _him_. He also had concrete proof in that Draco had unquestioningly followed him all the way to the Ministry in London, knowing they weren't supposed to leave Hogwarts and without knowing why they were going.

The Ministry on a Sunday morning resembled Hogwarts over the summer hols. Kingsley Shacklebolt was waiting for them, waving aside the sleepy-looking guard who wanted to weigh Harry's wand and might have objected to his badge, which read, "Mind your own" where his business was supposed to be listed. Draco was now under Harry's Invisibility Cloak, and Kingsley's eyes flicked to the empty space on Harry's right side for an instant before settling on Harry.

"You sure about this?" he asked.

"Absolutely." Harry smiled. "Of course, I am the one who hared off after Voldemort with only Ron for company."

A reluctant smile graced the tall man's features, and he began to lead them through the Atrium. "And we all know how that turned out."

They took the lift down to Level Nine (which Harry did his best not to think about) and then the stairs to the grim stone of Level Ten (where he shook off memories of Courtroom Ten). They went in the opposite direction from his last visit, took several turns, and ended up in a long hallway that stretched beyond Harry's vision. Spaced like clockwork as far as the eye could see were identical-looking doors that glimmered with heavy wards.

Kingsley halted at a door that, as far as Harry could tell, was indistinguishable from its fellows and disabled the wards wordlessly with a complicated motion of his wand that Harry had never seen before.

"Call if you need me," he admonished, still looking as though he didn't think this was the brightest idea in the world.

Harry nodded, and with another wave of the Auror's wand, the door opened. The Gryffindor passed inside, knowing Draco had followed because of the invisible fingers that were suddenly digging into his shoulder.

It was not as horrible as Harry had worried it might be. He had the distinct impression that the room was larger on the inside than the outside, housing, as it did, a double bed, two armchairs in front of a small hearth, a table with two wooden chairs, a shelf, and a dresser. There was another door that was partially ajar, showing Harry that it led to the loo. And someone had even put in one of those Charmed windows that made it seem as though you could see outside even though they were really deep underground. It wasn't exactly _cheery_, because the stone walls and floor and ceiling were still unremittingly grey, and it no doubt seemed downright mean to its current occupants, but it could almost have been a quirky hotel. What had this looked like, Harry wondered, before he had spoken to the Minister?

The two occupants of the room were frozen in their chairs by the fire, each with a book in their hands. Presently, they recovered enough to look entirely displeased to see him.

"Have you come to gloat?" It was Narcissa who found her voice first.

Harry shook his head, slightly stunned by the realization that this was the first time he had heard Draco's mother speak; he had only seen her briefly that one time at the Quidditch World Cup (and she had evidently been with Voldemort, at the end, but he didn't remember seeing her there). She looked more worn now, her plain grey robes clean but common. Her appearance wasn't perfectly immaculate, a few strands of hair out of pace, a line or two of worry on her face, but Harry thought it made her look more human. She still appeared distantly beautiful, and Harry would unquestionably take a hundred of her over her sister, Bellatrix.

"Have you come here to threaten us, then?" she pursued.

She still managed to stare down her nose at him, despite their location, but Harry supposed their sense of self was probably what was keeping them together at this point.

Harry shook his head once more. "I've come to tell you, quite simply, that you're on your third and final chance. You don't get anymore."

"We don't know what you're talking about." Lucius's tone was not quite the supercilious, cultured one that Harry remembered from previous encounters, but he still sneered pretty effectively. Well, he wasn't Harry's favourite person, either.

"You chose to follow Voldemort," Harry explained. "He fell, and you chose his side once more. He has fallen again, for good this time, and this is your final opportunity to make the right choice."

"You think we're going to have the opportunity to _redeem_ ourselves in this cell, do you?" Narcissa asked contemptuously.

"No, which is why I don't expect you to remain in it."

"You expect what, then, that we'll make a break for it?" Lucius demanded, eyes narrowed suspiciously.

Harry rolled his eyes, reminded exactly where Draco got all his annoying traits from.

"Of course I don't expect you to try to break out; no, this is not some evil plan for me to gain more glory and acclaim by single-handedly apprehending you, though you do get points for coming up with the stupidest reason I could possibly be here." God grant him patience. "The trial has to be got through, of course, but Hermione has attested to your displeasure at her torture and the threat to Calla. Ron has testified to your cursing the other Death Eaters and permitting Professor Snape and me to get out with Hermione and Calla. And I have expressed my desire that you be given, as I said, your third and final chance. For the last time, you're getting as clean a slate as you'll ever have, but it's not because you've bought your way out."

"Why would you do such a thing?" Narcissa demanded, sounding both stunned and distrustful.

Harry took a deep breath and rather than thinking uncharitably about not looking gift horses in the mouth, reminded himself of how he would feel were their situations reversed, and Lucius Malfoy had suddenly appeared promising to grant Harry his freedom.

"Ron and Hermione did it because it was the truth and the right thing to do. I agree with them, but I may have been … additionally motivated." He craned his neck to look over his shoulder. "Are you going to join in the conversation at some point, or leave your parents thinking I'm talking to myself?"

When even this elicited no response, Harry reached back and found the solid object behind him by touch. He pulled off the Cloak.

Draco blinked at him. "I thought they were in Azkaban."

Harry was a little alarmed that Draco was stuck at that realization, but said, "I … er … suggested it might be more convenient if they weren't. Go on, I'll stand over here," he gestured at the corner of the room furthest away from the Malfoys, "and let you get reunited."

Turning back to the elder Malfoys, Harry found that they'd gone ashen. _Bad way to spring this reunion on everyone, apparently_.

"Go sit with your parents."

This didn't get a response, either, so Harry conjured a chair and shoved Draco towards it. The Slytherin stumbled forward a couple of steps and landed in the chair with a dull thud. Harry wandered over to the spot that he had indicated and cast a Silencing Charm so that he wouldn't overhear what they were saying.

It was about half an hour later when Kingsley's throat-clearing from the hall indicated that their visit had come to an end. Harry lowered his charm.

"I'm afraid we can't stay any longer, Draco."

With evident reluctance, the Slytherin rose. His parents did the same, each embracing him tightly. Then, to Harry's great surprise, Narcissa held out her hand.

"Thank you, Mr. Potter."

"Harry," the Gryffindor invited since it seemed the polite thing to do, completing the handshake, "if you can manage it."

Narcissa cast a side-long look at her son and then her husband.

"I daresay we'll find a way … eventually."

"Well, small steps, you know," Harry said cheerfully, pleased by how well this had gone after the rocky start. "Start with not trying to kill me and build from there."

"Harry," Draco hissed, sounding horrified.

But then Lucius had offered his hand as well.

"No attempts at murder, Mr. Potter," he declared solemnly.

Harry smiled, but gave the older blond man a very serious nod. They had a lot of bridges to build and fences to mend, and every step counted.

Draco donned the Cloak once more, and they exited into the hallway. Kingsley resealed the door, and by the time they reached the Atrium, they were, to all appearances, in the midst of a long, lively conversation about the possibility of suspected Death Eaters on the run settling down in South America and whether or not they posed a threat.

"We shall certainly keep you posted should we hear of anything suspicious."

"Thanks, Auror Shacklebolt," Harry said, shaking the man's hand.

"Anytime, Mr. Potter," the man replied, although his look suggested that frequent illicit visits to the Ministry would be frowned upon.

Nodding in understanding, Harry and the invisible Draco quickly bypassed the now-gaping guard for the streets of London, and from there they Apparated back to Hogsmeade. On the walk back from the Apparition Point to the castle, Draco broke the silence.

"I wouldn't have asked you to do that."

"I know," Harry said simply, then shrugged. "But there have to be some perks to being with the Saviour of the Wizarding World, right?"

Draco stopped him to look him searchingly in the eyes, but then he smiled and resumed walking.

"You do get the best seats at the next Quidditch World Cup, right?"

* * *

Mid-week, it was as though Hermione had been hit with an industrial-strength Cheering Charm. She suddenly looked as happy as Harry felt, sort of abidingly happy, leaving them puzzled but deeply relieved. It seemed to effect everyone, because Calla kept smiling to herself, and even Professor Snape had reappeared, once more toting the potions that a pleased-looking Madam Pomfrey now only had to check the efficacy of once every two days.

Dumbledore had called Harry up to his office to inform him that his sentiments were admirable, but could he consider advising the headmaster or his head of house before he left the premises in the future. Harry hadn't really expected to keep the visit from the man and was pleasantly surprised by the form of this mild reprimand; Dumbledore wasn't treating him like a child anymore. There was a wide world out there, and Harry had, in fact, been forced to interact with it for years. Although Voldemort was gone, the repercussions of Harry's involvement had not ceased, and Harry's obligations were not limited by the castle walls. The Gryffindor had judged the visit to the Malfoys to be necessary, and the headmaster had accepted his decision.

Ever since the night in the Room of Requirement, Harry had trouble preventing himself from smiling at Draco in class and in the halls, leaving Draco to cast a number of aspersions upon Gryffindors and their notions of stealth and subtlety. It was with relief that the Gryffindor retired each day to Hermione's rooms or popped into Draco's to read his daughter a bedtime story. Harry wasn't built for keeping these sorts of secrets – he wanted to shout how happy he was from the tallest mountain. The pleased little smile that Draco wore when he thought Harry wasn't looking suggested that the blond boy wasn't as annoyed by this behaviour as he pretended to be.

Whether Hermione had spoken again to Ron or this was a result of that one conversation they had overheard, Harry found that his hot-tempered best friend was dealing remarkably well with his closeness to the Slytherin Ice Prince. They weren't snogging in front of his friends or anything, as even Harry had more sense than that, but it was clear even to Ron that Harry and Draco were more intimate than they had been. Although Harry occasionally surprised a look of vague distaste on Ron's face, there had been no explosions and not even many off-colour comments. Maybe Hermione had been working on him since she'd first found out about Calla…. That might explain it.

At any rate, Ron was being almost entirely civil, and he hadn't blown Harry off, either; evenings usually found him entertaining Calla as well, and while Harry sometimes wished that he and Draco had a little more time alone, he wouldn't have traded this acceptance from his first friend.

About a fortnight after what still ranked as the best night of Harry's life, Harry, Ron, and Draco watched Calla fall right to sleep after their three-way recitation of _Sleeping Beauty_.

"The Muggles have got it all wrong," Draco was now saying in a low voice as they moved from the little girl's bedroom to the sitting room. "I don't think you should be teaching this nonsense to our daughter, Harry."

"It's a version of the tale," Harry defended, wondering why this was his fault when Draco was the one who had read _Rapunzel_ to her and stocked the pile of books from which they had chosen tonight's selection. Of course, if it had been Calla's choice, it did seem likely that the future Harry had been the one to influence her in a fairy tale direction. "It's a fun and exciting version that Calla enjoys, but Muggles have others." He frowned. "I think it was originally creepy and dark, actually, but who wants to read _that_ to their children?"

"A little bit of historical accuracy wouldn't go amiss," Draco said, as though his mission in life were to be historically accurate.

"I'm not reading Calla anything that might give her more nightmares than she already has from her recent kidnapping by Voldemort," the Gryffindor argued. "We can let her read the original version when she's older."

"By original I take it you mean the pale imitation Muggles produced?" Draco said, distaste plain.

"Just because it's Muggle doesn't make it inferior. Hermione's the brightest witch of our age and my _mother_ was Muggle-born," Harry said darkly.

Draco had enough sense not to ignore these warning signs, and his tone was much more conciliatory when he said, "I only suggest that the actual original would be more beneficial to our daughter's education." Harry was still looking stubborn. "I know how much Calla enjoyed _The Hobbit_."

Harry smiled and conceded in turn, "And Calla should read the real original. But the one I'm thinking of really was quite dark and might not have had spindles and a hundred-year sleep in it at all, but I can't totally remember."

"I'm sure Hermione would know," put in Ron, who had been watching their argument rather as though he was at a tennis match.

It didn't actually matter, of course, but both Draco and Harry wanted to be proved right, so they followed Ron's suggestion and trooped up to see Hermione. It was the sort of fact she would know or would be excited to look up, as eager as Harry, he was sure, to prove to Draco the worth of some things Muggle. It was shortly after ten, so they were mildly surprised to find the lights dim in the sitting room and no Hermione in sight. As her recovery had advanced, she been more and more frequently found propped up in front of the fire, catching up on her homework (and no doubt getting far ahead of them once more).

"She's probably working in the bedroom," Ron said, reaching for the door handle. "Wanted a change of scene or something."

"I'm not sure you should—" Draco began, but then Ron had opened the door.

It took a good ten seconds for what they were seeing to register. Hermione had not been working on homework. Nor had she been sleeping.

No, she was being snogged on the bed – and responding with a _great_ deal of enthusiasm – by a tall figure who covered her almost completely. A tall figure dressed entirely in black, with lank black hair (through which Hermione had woven her fingers) and a big nose that should have got in the way, it really should, but they seemed to be managing quite fine, and…. Oh, god, had Hermione moaned?

There was an amused clearing of the throat. Hermione and Professor Snape pulled apart and looked over at them, flushed, causing Harry to look sideways as well. Harry gathered from the laughter dancing in Draco's grey eyes that he had been the one to make the intrusive noise.

"Sorry." He didn't sound sorry at all. "But I thought those two," he gestured at Harry and a brick-red Ron, "were going to implode if they saw much more of that."

Professor Snape moved to a sitting position and Hermione, looking entirely too rumpled for Harry's liking, cuddled up next to him (and Harry was sure that no one should ever, ever, _ever_ cuddle with the Potions master, but there was really no other word for it).

"You're changing your password."

The words were growled, and Hermione bit her lip before giving a shaky nod. Harry felt righteous anger bubble up in him until he realized that she wasn't upset; she looked more like she was trying to prevent laughter.

Ron exploded.

"He's your professor!"

Hermione's look grew instantly serious. "I am an adult who is perfectly capable of regulating her own life, Ronald Weasley, but in point of fact, he is not. He's _your_ professor."

"Until you take your N.E.W.T.s—" Ron spat.

"Last July," she said coldly. "Outstanding."

The confusion seemed to knock some of the wind out of Ron's sails. "What?"

"I said I sat my N.E.W.T.s last July."

"How?"

For the first time, Hermione began to explain to them the outcome of all the potions she had learnt while helping Professor Snape over two summers. Ron interrupted.

"If he said he'd taught you N.E.W.T.-level potions so you'd lose your scruples and go to bed with him—!"

Harry's jaw dropped. Was Ron out of his bloody mind?

It was only Hermione's white-knuckled grip on Professor Snape's arm that kept him on the bed, but her other hand had an equally white-knuckled grasp on her wand. Harry had never seen her so angry, not even when she had slapped Draco in third year or began her mission of vengeance against Rita Skeeter in fourth. The pink spots of colour in her cheeks were pure fury, all remnants of pleasure gone, and her voice could have frozen sea water.

"For your information, not that it is _any_ of your business, it was Professor Dumbledore who informed me that I had completed sixth and seventh year Potions, and it was he who arranged for me to sit my N.E.W.T.s. The Ministry official administered them, the results are duly logged at the Ministry, and if you _ever_ cast aspersions on Severus's character like that again, they will never figure out what happened to you."

Marietta Edgecombe's face had still borne the word "sneak" when she left school, Harry remembered suddenly.

"You shouldn't be shagging Professor Snape!" Ron's face was nearly purple, and Harry was certain that "Professor Snape" was _really_ not what Ron had been trying to say, but Hermione's charm was equal even to Ron's extreme ire.

"I will shag whomever I please!" Hermione snapped back. "It's none of your business."

"Of course it's my business! I'm your friend," Ron said aggressively and with, Harry thought, not a whole lot of sense. "Harry's disgusted, too, aren't you, Harry?"

Harry froze like a deer caught in headlamps. On the one side was Ron, clearly expecting to be vindicated. On the other was Hermione … and Draco … and Professor Snape. Harry wasn't precisely pleased with this turn of events, it was true, but disgusted was a strong word, and if Harry gainsaid Hermione and her choice, he wasn't entirely certain that she would forgive him when he was standing right next to the Slytherin _he_ had chosen.

Surprisingly, it was Professor Snape who came to Harry's rescue.

"I believe Mr. Potter has learnt the wisdom of keeping his opinion to himself – even if he so seldom makes use of it. Now," the Slytherin rose from the bed, easily managing to stare them all down, "I believe you have trespassed upon Hermione's time quite long enough for one evening. As we have clarified so carefully just now, I _am_ still your professor, Mr. Weasley," he said sternly when the redhead began to protest, "and you are all out after curfew. Solely because it would annoy Hermione unduly in her injured state if I were to give you all detentions until Easter, I am giving you this one opportunity to leave."

Harry and Draco reacted as one, grabbing Ron by either arm and simply hauling him out of the room. The redhead was still spluttering when they reached the hall.

"Sleep on it, Ron," Harry advised. "You'll feel better in the morning."

* * *

By the beginning of the next week, Hermione, nearly good as new, was back in class with them, meaning that the cheerful presence of Calla was lightening up the periods as well. It was helpful indeed, because most of their professors were still choosing to recover from Dumbledore's holiday by heaping mountains of homework on their O.W.L. and N.E.W.T. students.

Potions was just plain weird. Every time Harry looked at Professor Snape, he had to fight off images of the man in bed with Hermione…. At the very least, surely the head of Slytherin should look embarrassed, but no, he took it all in a stride that Harry and Ron had caught him snogging their best friend. It hadn't helped a bit when Draco had pointed out that at least they hadn't caught the two of them doing anything _else_. Harry shuddered. Maybe Ron wasn't the only one who needed his brain scrubbed out.

It would be a stretch to say that Ron was reconciled to the idea of Hermione and Professor Snape together, but as long as he didn't see any outright examples of their affection, he seemed almost normal. Harry was sure that this was because when he wasn't directly faced with it, he could spend most of his time pretending it had never happened.

Hermione was happy, Harry knew that, and so he was pleased for her. He knew it even sort of made sense, because there wasn't anyone in their year as smart as Hermione was … but it was still a bit creepy, maybe because they could see that Professor Snape was happy, as well…. Hermione had gotten quite shirty when Professor Snape's touching her on the arm had resulted in Ron trying to suggest that their relationship was unacceptable because even if the man wasn't her professor now, he had been in the past.

"He's been teaching since he was twenty, Ron; he's taught Potions to almost two decades of witches – we've all been his students." The light in her eyes became martial. "You're not trying to say he can't be interested in any of us, are you?"

It was quite clear that Ron had been trying to say precisely that, but he answered in the negative, even he recognizing the close brush he had already had with her temper and the threat to bodily harm under which he was now operating.

The revelation of Hermione and Professor Snape's relationship had the added benefit for Harry of making him and Draco seem like old news, and Ron was positively blasé about seeing the two of them together.

Draco, from the moment he had seen Professor Snape in Hermione's bed, had taken the discovery rather better than Harry had expected. Although Harry knew a lot had changed since they were twelve, it simply wasn't that long since the Slytherin had called the bushy-haired know-it-all the worst epithet he could throw at her at every opportunity.

Draco only shook his head when Harry brought the matter up as delicately as he could. "I've had weeks to get used to the idea, Harry. Severus carried her back here in his arms, stayed up for days to make sure she lived, and brought her potions to her rooms daily. He's obviously enamoured."

Put like that, it did seem as though Harry had been particularly obtuse in not picking it up.

Maybe time really was the crucial factor in acceptance. Knowing about Calla had forced Ron, however reluctantly, to begin reconciling to the idea of Harry and Draco together, whereas the news about Hermione and Professor Snape had come completely out of the blue.

Although, given that Calla looked pleased as punch whenever they were all together, Harry now had a good idea of at least one of the bits of information from the future that Hermione had been careful the girl never revealed. Had Harry made more of an effort, he could probably have worked more out sooner. He made a mental note never to mention this suspicion to Ron; it would surely be safer to break it to the redhead over the normal course of time.

Saturday evening found Draco preparing to host dinner in his sitting room; since the Slytherin had issued the invitation, Professor Snape had even agreed to come. Ron had grumbled incessantly about the idea of being surrounded by Slytherins and completely daft Gryffindors who chose Slytherins as mates. Harry could have sworn that he saw Hermione step on Calla's toes to get her to close her just-opened mouth, and he decided that it would be better not to know. In the end, it was only Calla's incessant litany of "please, please, please" that made Uncle Ron consent to come.

They'd planned everything carefully. Draco would be sitting at the head of the table and Harry at the foot. Ron would be on Harry's left, opposite Hermione. Professor Snape was next to her (on Draco's left), and Calla was opposite him, next to Ron, safely insulating him from the Slytherin contingent of the room. Harry had made sure Draco requested all Ron's favourite foods from the house-elves; if he could keep the peace through Ron's stomach, he wasn't above doing so.

Harry, Draco, and Ron were still waiting for Hermione and Professor Snape, who were bringing Calla from the library, where they had been investigating a stash of children's books that Hermione had come across in a dusty Muggle Studies section. It was several minutes past the hour, and Draco was starting to look impatient.

"They're two of the most anal people I know," Draco complained when the minutes had ticked by to a quarter past. "How can they be late?"

Privately, Harry agreed, and since they had Calla with them, he didn't even have to entertain the most likely reason they could have lost track of the time. Almost as soon as he had the thought, the door opened, and Hermione climbed through, followed by Professor Snape. Both looked terribly serious. The door closed, and it took a moment for Harry to fully grasp what was wrong with this picture.

He didn't remember rising and crossing to their side. "Where is our daughter?"

Hermione exchanged a look with Professor Snape, and then said quietly, "We were coming back from the loo. I was right next to her when she disappeared – right through the floor above where she'd fallen when I caught her in January." Harry's heart plummeted into his stomach like a rock. He opened his mouth, but Hermione hurried on, "I checked, of course I checked, Harry; Severus and I both looked – she didn't fall through to the floor below. She's gone, the same as she arrived; she went back where she came from."

Sharp sadness pierced Harry. Calla was gone. Voldemort was finally dead, and Harry was free to see as much of Calla as he wished, but now she was gone, and who knew how long it would be before he got to see her again.

"She's not gone forever, Harry," Hermione said gently. "She's back where she's supposed to be, and you'll see her again."

Harry nodded woodenly. He knew what she was saying was true, but it didn't help.

And then Draco was at his side, twining an arm around his waist to lean in and whisper in Harry's ear: "We'll just have to go practice making babies."

And just like that, Harry's future didn't seem so gloomy after all.

* * *

**Author's Note**: I didn't originally expect Hermione and Severus to hijack quite so much of chapter seven as they did, or to take so long to resolve their differences. As a result, this chapter encompasses many of the same days as chapter seven. Some of the conversations and actions, as I'm sure you've gathered, weren't reported by Hermione, though she was present; I thought they were more effective from Harry's POV, Hermione was concentrating on Severus, and I didn't want the last chapter to go on forever (all evidence to the contrary). Draco and Harry got their long chapter, too, so I think it all works out in the end.

I'm not sure if my use of Silencing Charms is canon, as the more I think about it, the more it seems in canon that they're used directly on a person (as in the Department of Mysteries by Hermione on Dolohov); I've read so many fics with Silencing Charms put up on rooms, etc., however, that I continued with that trend. (It was that or have Harry cast Muffliato on himself in the cell, and that just seemed silly.)

It was Léonie who so much preferred to be the Duke of Avon's "last" rather than his "first" in Georgette Heyer's _These Old Shades_. The idea has stuck with me over the years, and it seemed fitting here. Apologies to those who were looking for more lemons, but I'm currently comfortable writing a fade-to-black. Also, I'm not condoning Harry and Draco habitually leaving house-elves to look after their child all night while they're off having sex in other parts of the castle, but, Silencing Charms or no Silencing Charms, I couldn't have Harry and Draco's first time within earshot of their daughter :) The hints at Ron's Slytherin are thanks to Olivia Lupin's _Concatenation_, which goes places I would never have imagined going with Ron and does so beautifully. Additional thanks to LydiaJayne, who influences me even when I don't realize it – cheers for the perfect RoR kiss!

_Last up_: A short epilogue (It really is tiny, I swear.)

* * *


	11. Epilogue

**Author's Note**: This story is neither _HBP_ nor _DH_ compliant. _Feedback is always appreciated; reviews feed my muse and make me smile._

**Anti-Litigation Charm**: It all belongs to JKR; I play for non-profit amusement.

* * *

_**It All Started when the Girl Fell from the Sky**_

by Silver Birch

_Epilogue_

Hermione Snape was pacing a narrow stretch of hallway at breakneck speed. She reached the end of her circuit, whipped around, and strode back the way she had come. Every few seconds, she checked her watch, which was not telling her the answer she was looking for: namely, that it was more than ten seconds since she'd last checked.

She was at the wrong end of the hallway when it happened, and Hermione found herself mirroring a scene that had occurred nearly a decade ago as she dove to catch a small child who fell out of the sky.

The tangle of bodies sorted itself out, although Hermione somehow still managed to get the wind knocked out of her. The child facing Hermione looked exactly like a miniature Malfoy, and Hermione was thrown for a moment before she remembered the charm they had performed to obscure the true colour of Calla's eyes.

The little girl blinked. "Aunt 'Mione?"

Hermione smiled at her. "Yes, angel. Are you feeling alright?"

The child giggled. "I mostly fell on you, and you're mostly squishy."

Hermione realized that she'd been echoing, almost word for word, the speech she had given to the then-unknown child the first time she had landed on Hermione.

"That was the plan this time around, as well," she answered, getting them both up off the ground, Calla once again in her arms.

"You know, you might have considered a spell," a voice drawled from the other side of the hall.

Hermione made a face at her husband as he sauntered in their direction.

"I did consider one, Severus, but this was more fun, wasn't it, Calla?"

The little girl nodded, beaming up at her godfather. "I want to do it again and again and again!"

Hermione laughed. "I think that would be a little trying on the nerves of your parents. Shall we go tell them you're back?"

Calla nodded once more, and Hermione made her way down the hallway with the slender burden in her arms and the silent presence of Severus at her side. In no time, they were at Harry and Draco's quarters, and the little girl had burst through the door ahead of them.

"Daddy! Father!"

"Calla!" came two answering bellows, and Calla was soon scooped up and crushed in a three-way hug.

Severus pulled Hermione close, arm curling around her abdomen, and she leaned back against his chest as they watched the joyful family reunion.

"Thank God," she whispered. "I'll sleep easier knowing this is done with."

"Where's that Gryffindor courage," she could hear the rumble of his voice against her back, "always ready for the next adventure?"

"Politely told to bugger off, Severus, by some form of common sense."

He laughed softly, but she knew he agreed with her. Since Severus and Hermione had been unwilling to take the chance of overlapping Calla on herself on her return to the present, Calla had been absent for the last week. It had been torture for Hermione, faced as she was with two frantic parents, and she had been agitated enough to make it quite difficult for Severus, as well. They all knew Calla had disappeared from the past, but none of them knew for certain that she would reappear in the present. Draco and Harry were distraught, and there were only so many times that Hermione could vaguely reassure them that everything would turn out fine. As each hour passed from the disappearance with no sign of Calla's return, everyone had become steadily more frazzled. She and Severus had guarded the secret of their involvement well over the years. In the last week, however, the Slytherin had been forced to remind Hermione more than once that ruining that now, especially to tell the parents that she thought they'd done it right but couldn't be certain until Calla reappeared, would serve no useful purpose.

Like her stint with the Time-Turner in third year, now that a happy conclusion had been reached, Hermione could hardly say the reward wasn't worth the risk, but there was no way she would consider this as a habitual occurrence.

"I'm burning those notes when we get home," she muttered.

"Uh huh." His response was noncommittal.

Alright, yes, their theoretical value, if nothing else, made them priceless, and as a tribute to what they had achieved…. So maybe she'd just tuck them away somewhere under a mountain of protective spells…. She knew without looking that her husband was smirking at her, as though he could see her thought process even through her Occlumency shields. He pressed a kiss into her hair, soothing her.

Briefly, she considered what their lives would have been like if Calla hadn't dropped in on them. As Harry waved away the spell that masked Calla's eyes and positively beamed into the green ones that matched his own, Hermione smiled.

Perhaps it _had_ taken a little non-standard manipulation, but events had unfolded precisely as they were supposed to have done. Hermione knew with absolute certainty that they were all exactly where they ought to be.

_finite incantatem_

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**Author's Note**: This story didn't feel complete without an epilogue, as I needed to assure myself, as much as my readers, that Calla positively, one hundred percent got back to where she was supposed to be. 

When I first brushed off the initial chapter of this story and decided to post it, I had only about five hundred words of chapter two written and no concrete idea how the story would end. Encouraged, however, by all the kind reviews for "Look Out Below!", I got busily to work. Before chapter two went up, I had planned the number of chapters and mapped the basic events, discovering that Harry was going to kill Voldemort and realizing that Severus and Hermione were to blame for the whole darn thing. At that point, however, I cheerfully estimated that each chapter would be around 3000 words, and I would update once a week or so; I'd thus complete it at under 25 000 words after about two months.

It has been a crazy ride since then. My reviewers have kept me motivated even as my mind has taken me places I didn't anticipate. I let my family and friends know I had begun posting some of my fanfic, and they wanted details and links to archives. I learnt just how addictive it is to sit in my account and watch the number of hits increase for each chapter. I discovered that you can't load 12 000+ words at once on E&S. I wrote like a maniac during days off, after work, and before I had to leave in the morning. I performed edits on paper when I couldn't access my laptop and practically lived in LydiaJayne's apartment when she was kind enough to let me use her word processing capabilities – this plot bunny has clamoured, yelled, and gnawed at my ankles even when I was trying to reread books one through six and then got sucked through _DH_ in a whirlwind single sitting. _It All Started_ was a lot of fun to write (usually), but it was very consuming (although now I think I might have the discipline for NanoWriMo in November).

Thanks to everyone who has made this such a positive experience for me, especially my admin over on Sycophant Hex, RaeWhit, my friends and fellow fanfic-lovers LydiaJayne and Laeral, and all the lovely readers and reviewers who've stuck with me; all my frequent reviewers of FF have been quite inspirational. I don't know exactly what's coming next, but more fanfiction is definitely in my future.

Silver Birch

_August 2007_

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